MISSION 001

[etrayamods]

WHO: Everyone!
WHEN: March 29th-April 20th
WHERE: Everywhere on Etraya
WHAT: Mission 001!
NOTES\WARNINGS: Potential violence, death.

⏵ mission prep ⏴ On the morning of the 29th, characters will receive a notification from Aurora to come to the hospital’s ground floor to prepare for their first mission. On this floor, pairs will be given slips of paper with matching numbers. If characters have chosen their partners, they too will receive small slips of paper with matching numbers, as these numbers match the room assignment they will be asked to please step inside. The rooms themselves are bare. There’s a cot, two chairs pushed up against a small table, a miniature fridge set up below a sink, and a television that only plays static. On the table is a note, which simply reads: Welcome. To prepare you for your first mission, we are giving you time to get to know your partner. You have a twelve-hour time limit to discuss your lives together. We recommend talking about moments throughout your life that have defined the person you have become. In addition, we have included several ingredients inside the miniature refrigerator. You must, without telling your partner specifically what it is, create their favorite drink using the ingredients within and above the refrigerator. Do not attempt to cheat. Do not make your own drink. If you pass, you will both be given two points and the door will unlock. If you fail, you may try again with the same partner or a new partner may be reassigned to you. Good luck. Within the mini fridge will be numerous ingredients - these ingredients could be anything, from Bantha milk to dragon fruit - whatever their favorite drinks are, they will find all the correct ingredients to make them. There will also be numerous extra ingredients. Maybe a character’s favorite drink is a nice cup of peppermint tea. The kettle, and the tea bags, will be present on top of the mini fridge, but there may also be soda bottles inside the fridge and various milk substitutes. Cheating by making their own drink will result in the game being reset, and a new partner being assigned or no partner at all being assigned and they will simply be removed from this part of the exercise. ⏵ the secret's out⏴ Numerous notes can be found throughout Etraya’s populated areas - falling from the sky, taped to doors, slid under them, or perhaps being handed out by a few of the companion bots who will eagerly note how these are meant to help, but a quick read may show that they’re not things anyone wants to be given out so freely. After all, on the notes are secrets, untold truths, things that were never meant to be shared nor wanted out in the open. Some of these aren’t notes at all, but small packages that are not addressed to anyone in particular, or addressed to the incorrect party. Inside the packages are items that may be associated with a particular event: a knife that had been used to betray a friend still stained with blood, a mask meant to conceal identity, a picture featuring a moment in time that had best been left forgotten. The goal of the game becomes clear by the notes written on the back or thin slips within the packages: match the secret to the person. You could simply ignore them, but the note also includes an addendum: more notes will continue to be sent until the person is matched to their secret. ⏵ cracked reflection ⏴ Every person is an intricate mosaic, composed of numerous facets that shape what makes them - themselves. After all, one person is not simply one picture, but rather, a puzzle comprised of myriad pieces. These pieces may shape their strengths, their sense of humor, the influences of their upbringing, and who they admired in their formative years. Together, these fragments coalesce into a singular form: you. But what if those pieces were rearranged? What if the fundamental aspects that define who you are simply… didn’t exist? What if, rather than being a courageous hero, you were cast as a formidable villain? What if, instead of pursuing the path that led you to greatness, you veered in a different direction? A new dawn breaks over Etraya. The artificial sun rises over the horizon, accompanied by the melodic chirping of birds. As the denizens of Etraya awaken, they sense... a shift in the air - a feeling of dissonance, as if a piece of themselves has suddenly gone missing. Because it has. Doubles of every current inhabitant of Etraya roam the corridors of the apartment building and the surrounding facilities. They let themselves into Roxx to get a few new outfits, get themselves a meal at the hospital cafeteria, or maybe they’re raiding the snack shelves at Kwik Trip. They may bear a striking resemblance to their counterpart and act very similarly, but there is something off about them. A quality that sets them apart. Remember that step you took, that led you to your current career? The step you’ve kept secret for so long, that has defined your actions ever since? They didn’t take it. They went down a different path, something darker, or perhaps something lighter. They took the path you most feared, the one you knew would turn out terribly. And they in turn - turned out for the worst. Characters will find they are facing one of their worst fears: themselves, but their worst selves. The version of them that they fought so hard not to become, that they strove against rather than towards. And the mission? They need to take out their worst selves. But there’s a twist: interaction with their doubles isn’t possible. Both halves are cognizant of each other’s existence, yet they are incapable of verbally or physically interacting with each other. And while the double understands what they are, the original? Well… how do you truly know you are who you’re supposed to be? What if you were the double all along? What if you are your own worst self? There is one way to be sure: the color of the copies’ blood is slightly darker than what it should be. Running closer to a red-black than the red you would anticipate. Or for some, perhaps their blood is red where it should be running black. While they feel and look real, driving a unique blade straight through where their heart would be will cause doubles to dissipate into nothing once the knife penetrates deep enough. As for the genuine articles, well, the blade is sharp—and it’s going to hurt. A blade is provided for every authentic copy. Those who were sleeping through the night will find it beside them upon awakening. As for those who remain vigilant throughout the night, the blade will manifest beside them in the early hours of April 2nd. Guess someone is going to have to kill your double. ⏵ quicksilver has no sense of tact ⏴ Aurora’s announcement left out several crucial details: the existence of the doubles, for one. But also the looming deadline to take care of the mess that has been dropped onto Etraya. Inside the characters’ wrists, they will discover a timer gradually counting down. The timers are only visible for the person who dons it, as is the amount of time given. Every person is given an individual time limit, but it cannot be longer than two weeks. As the numbers dwindle, more black marks appear going up the inside of their arms toward the inside of their elbow. And what are the black marks? With each additional black mark, they begin to feel… less like themselves, and more like their doppelgangers. In the beginning, maybe they barely notice the change. Maybe it’s a favorite food they loved that they now hate, or perhaps it’s an event that has shifted: something small but important - a decision to save a life changed to taking one. Maybe they’ll feel like a piece of themselves is no longer the same, replaced with another feeling or sensation. Where something would have usually made them empathetic to another's blight, now they find their suffering funny. Regardless, the longer their doubles are around, the longer they slowly begin to become their doubles - and their doubles begin to become just like them. If their doppelganger is not taken out at the end of their provided time, it will simply dissipate and the original will remain changed. The only way to return to normal is to kill the original. After death, the character will remain dead for twenty-four hours before returning to their normal selves as if the death had never occurred. While killing them to return them to normal is information Aurora will readily share, no one will inform them that they will simply return to normal by April 20th. ⏵ OOC ⏴ Welcome to the first mission! For any questions relating to this mission please reply below. All other questions can be directed to the FAQ. Please note that while ICly, characters are not given a choice, players can choose which missions they wish for their characters to participate in. They may have missed receiving room assignments, or their secrets may not have been dropped, or a copy may not have shown up for them. This may not always be an option in future missions! ⏵FULL NAVIGATION⏴

Comments

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[equivo]

mission prep | clarke | closed

[equivo]

Krouse showed up promptly at Aurora's invitation, his cigarette on the way from the apartment building to the hospital torn through impatiently and stubbed out on one of the stone garbage bins just beyond it. He didn't cut an impressive figure hovering at the edge of the assembled crowd, idly watching the rest of them as he leaned against a wall in red hoodie, dark blue jeans, and black sneakers.

Only someone watching back would have noticed the incisive way his gaze flitted from one person to the next, the bruised shadows under his dark brown eyes giving a hollow edge to his sharp interest.

It's the same kind of look he gives the room behind the door he just opened, scanning its contents quickly and thoroughly. A single cot, a table and chairs, a sink and miniature fridge, on top of which a hooded stick blender, a coffee pot, a kettle, and a shaker cup compete for space. A television blares soft static. There's a note on the table. Nothing else jumps out at him.

"After you," he says, half-turning to make space for his partner, sweeping his hand out to the side to usher her in. Ladies first. It's just polite.

[skaikru]

Call it a trauma bias or just straight up paranoia, but something about joining the small crowd flocking to answer Aurora's call bitterly reminds Clarke of a death march. A heavy blanket of mystery and anticipation smothers any notion of excitement or interest to learn more about this place and the duties they've been called to fulfill — the curiosity was bound to be answered, but would they like what they learned? Instead they are just a rough amalgamation of strangers walking into questionable circumstances with an unknown ideal outcome. Anyone who isn't religiously observing the people around them isn't really paying attention here, are they? And while she and the strange boy in the red hoodie may never make outright eye contact, the prickling sensation of of being watched catches on the back of her neck like fish hooks.

Her first order of business, as always, is to keep track of her friends the best she can. Rita Mordio, Natsuno Yuuki, and Octavia Blake are all in attendance, but when it comes time to peel off into their pre-selected pairs none of them move in the same direction. For a long moment, Clarke dawdles behind, mouth screwed up tight and brow furrowed. The exit door is right there, but it feels a bit too early to dig in her heels; one can't fight a system they do not understand, and maybe shouldn't fight at all until confirming it'd be worth it. So she walks, shoulders tense and bright white sneakers snagged from an unfinished department store squeaking on the tiles with every other step, to the predetermined room — just to pull up short when face to face with her partner.

He's already opened the door and shuffled aside to let her in — after you — but Clarke takes a moment to scan the boy from head to toe regardless. Young, a little gaunt in the face, nondescript clothing (she herself is wearing black athletic leggings and a long sleeved off-white shirt, the first things she could grab from the store and her only change of clothes apart from the prison stripe uniform so far; and under the edge of her left sleeve is a crisp and fresh wrapping of gauze), casual demeanor and the pervasive stink of outside air and tobacco intermingled. Glancing in from the threshold, the room is bland and uninviting, but hardly a prison cell. Clarke still finds she does not want to step inside, especially at the behest of her partner if it'd mean turning her back on him, but... She must also remind herself that this place is not where she'd come from. Thus:

"...thanks."

And over the threshold she goes. Not outright holding her breath when slipping past Krouse, but definitely choosing not to breathe because, stinky. When the world doesn't immediately tip on its axis, monsters don't manifest from beneath the bed, and the air isn't sucked out of the room the second the door closes, Clarke half-turns to keep him in mild, peripheral regard while also moving.

"So. What's your name?"

The note remains untouched in the middle of the table for now. Clarke is too preoccupied with idly walking the perimeter of the room and touching everything; running her fingers over the items on top of the mini fridge, pressing her palm to the staticky television to feel the heat coming off of it. And intermittently glancing up the scan the ceiling. Aurora had never answered about exactly how they were being observed here...

[equivo]

The first thing Krouse learns about his new partner is that she's not an idiot.

She'd been one of the people he noted in the crowd for the edge to her tension. There's a way some people have of carrying themselves when they think that a situation might be on the cusp of hitting an invisible tipping point, a latent charge of anticipatory readiness that shows in the set of their feet and the swivel of their eyes. That's easy. Almost a given, for anyone who's thinking about any of this with a single critical angle in the mix.

But the seconds that follow her stepping into the room are illuminating about something that's less of a given: she has some actual idea of what she's doing. He closes the door behind him and follows her with his gaze as she circles the room with her exploratory touches, his expression too guarded to give away anything but thoughtfulness.

"Krouse," he says, simply, and crosses to the table. If she's working on the periphery, he might as well make himself useful in the centre.

"My bet would be there's at least one camera in the TV." He picks up the note, scanning through it. "If that's what you're looking for."

His lips thin as he finishes the note. He taps the edge of the paper with his thumb, producing a light, crisp wobble drowned out by the static.

"It looks like we have another bonding exercise." His tone is dry, a little arch. He circles around the table, keeping it between her and him as he moves, and offers the note to her at arm's length. "Seems like we're staying on theme. So."

The slight smile he gives her is a worn, tight one, the corners of his eyes creased by faint and unplaceable bitterness.

"What's yours?"

[skaikru]

People have a tendancy to ask for the names of strangers like it really means anything. Sure, if the introductions come in the middle of a wartime council meeting, the subsequent titles most attatch at the end can be enlightening and at least provide an idea of where to direct one's attention and pleas, but here? In a sparse little room? Krouse only means Krouse, a name attatched to a face. The rest is still a mystery.

Camera in the television almost seems too easy, but the instinct is solid and thus Clarke wastes no time moving her palm from the top of the television and instead trying to feels along its front and sides for any button that might at least turn off the static display. White noise can comfort some, may even remind her of the thrum of the Ark's engine underfoot every single day and night. But it's also the most immediate and unwelcome distraction in a strange new room, and when already on edge, the gentle screech just sets her teeth in a tight lock. She's about to start fumbling with the televisions backing in case it can be fully dismantled when Krouse presents the note.

Through the course of plucking the paper from his hand and scanning it herself, the already severe furrow on Clarke's brow somehow manages to deepen. This is at least more straight forward than those bingo cards they'd been handed at random, and includes significantly less stabbing. But — twelve hours, defining moments, and that standing indication from Aurora's earlier message about discussing their greatest weaknesses do not for a pleasant mix make.

"...great. At least it's consistent here."

Krouse may put in the effort to feign a smile, but the phantom bitterness still lingering around his eyes is in good concert with the perpetually souring mood freely etched across every part of her face. She reads the note a second time, just to familiarize herself with the requirements for the door to open and the point system, and almost entirely misses his question.

"Clarke Griffin. Can you grab me the blanket off the bed?"

mission prep | rita | closed

[equivo]

When the room resets, Krouse looks to the top of the minifridge first. The coffee pot has been replaced with a precariously balanced espresso set up, and the shaker cup has been swapped with a conventional blender.

He doesn't go to the fridge to check for new ingredients yet, but he thinks he can make some assumptions. He'll see how right he is in a minute.

First, he takes up a seat at the table and folds his hands on top of it, waiting patiently for his new partner to step into the room. When the door opens again, he brightens very slightly, like a guttering pilot light.

"Look who it is," he says, by way of hello, and waves a hand at the seat across from him. He looks her outfit over, mouth quirking into a tiny, joyless half-smile.

"No more stripes, huh?"

[myagic]

Having already been through at least one failed round, Rita's trepidation has been largely replaced by irritation. The whole thing is a pain, and saying it's a stretch to believe this has anything to do with saving their worlds would be an understatement. Krouse might end up waiting for a bit longer than he might have otherwise, then, as she first makes an effort to leave the hospital and this stupid game entirely. But the companion bots make themselves a nuisance, following and encouraging her to return, until finally she gets sick of it--fine, she'll win a round of the game and be done with it!

So it's with an irritated huff that she throws the door open, and then--oh. He'll get a familiar nose-scrunching look; he might not be the last person she wants to see, but he's sure not anywhere near the top, either.

"Of course not," she sighs, hands on her hips as she eyes him. "And no more orange for you, I see." It makes sense, after all; who's going to go around wearing any kind of recognizable prison garb when they have other options?

Speaking of. She sure has ditched the prison stripes, but, well. Not satisfied with a regular plaid skirt, she's gone with a very fashionable asymmetric design, at least colour-coordinated to the purple cat sweater. The ensemble's finished with thigh-high stockings, heeled boots, and a chain-linked waist bag, altogether leaving the impression of someone who'd probably be comfortable shopping at a Hot Topic.

[equivo]

It's not an outfit Krouse would go for, personally, to say the least. His sense of style runs to the classic and the sparse when he does put the effort in, a sensibility reflected in what he's wearing now only in that it's simple. He's not trying to stand out, while what Rita is wearing is all stand out.

But he can't help but admire the flare, even if he doesn't quite vibe with the aesthetic. It reminds him of someone else, like the sigh and the begrudging tolerance.

He shuts that line of thought down as casually as grinding out a cigarette butt and gestures at the seat across from him in an invitation that manages to be just a touch condescending, as if Rita has walked into a space that belongs to him and not the powers that be.

"Red's more my colour," he says, lightly, "Brings out my eyes."

Purple is apparently hers, given how much of it she's managed to fit into the overall ensemble. Good to know.

"And now that we're caught up on Paris fashion week, do you want to get to this, or are you still going the conscientious objector route?"

[myagic]

She snorts at his response. His choice of hoodie and jeans is noted only vaguely, not particularly worth much of her attention--precisely because they're so normal and nondescript.

His question brings a renewed scowl, though. "Sorry we're not all as excited about playing games as you."

And despite that grumbling, she does step into the room--pausing as she hears the click of the lock behind her, and glancing back with a frown--and sits across from him, leaning an elbow on the table as she glances around. Looks like the same setup, so...

"So, what, we're supposed to share our life stories, then make each other a drink--that's still the idea? What a pain..." Her glance settles on Krouse again. Sharing weaknesses is already pretty gross, something she'd do with only Natsuno--maybe Clarke, too. But this guy is just an acquaintance at best. After scrutinizing him for a moment, she holds out a hand in a go head gesture. "Well then, since you're so eager...by all means."

the secret's out | jessica | closed

[equivo]

When mysterious packages started dropping out of the sky, Krouse couldn't help but think about loot boxes. That was part of the reason he peeled the first one that landed at his feet open. The rest was plain and simple curiosity. An unmarked package falls out of nowhere, a person wants to know what's in it.

What was in it turned out to be another question mark. A square of purple cloth, neatly cut out of some larger whole, and a slip of paper explaining the goal of the game.

It's practically nothing to go on. He doesn't remember seeing anyone with a particularly purple motif, not that he might have even noticed. He has a feeling that it's one of those things that might only mean something to the person it's meant for, which means that staring at it harder isn't going to get him closer to solving it.

But staring at it keeps him preoccupied as he sits outside the apartment building on a nearby bench that, like a mushroom, seems to have sprouted out of the ground overnight. He turns the cloth over in his hand again as he smokes, the purple clashing with the dark red of his new hoodie.

His head snaps up at the sound of footsteps, his dark eyes underlined by darker half-circles sharp with wariness that shifts to, if not relaxation, at least recognition. Krouse slumps back against the bench and raises his cigarette in a shallow salute.

"Hey, Jessica."

[ebrius]

She doesn't see what he's looking at immediately. She assumes it's just something weird because this place is weird and what's another weird thing, right? So, she barely pays it any mind.

Familiarity is what draws her closer to him because, while she doesn't mind being alone, this place is new and even she needs some kind of reassurance that it's not all unfamiliar.

"Krouse," she says, sounding tired but not irritable. Not yet, at least. "I thought you were reading a book or something but you're not. What've you got?"

Later on, she will really wish she hadn't asked that question.

[equivo]

Krouse thinks he probably should be less okay with seeing Jessica here. The best case scenario for her would likely have been the quiet vanishing that took the other people he hasn't seen since he showed up. He could have imagined her back in New York City, picking up where she left off, well away from this place.

But he's not a very selfless individual, when it comes down to it. She's here. He doesn't mind seeing her. He shifts over on the bench to make more room in implicit invitation, and holds up the scrap of cloth. It shines softly in the sunlight, the deeper purple threads of its embroidered pattern turning an even richer colour.

"I'm trying to figure that out," he tells her, blithely unaware, "This dropped out of the sky in a package. Apparently, it means something to somebody."

[ebrius]

As soon as she sees it, she freezes. It could be anything, just some random piece of shit he picked up off the ground but there's something about that color that sends an icy chill through her.

She swallows, throat tight.

"That dropped out of the sky?" she asks, peering up. Her neck feels tight, body tense. "Was there anything else with it?"

the secret's out | natsuno | closed

[equivo]

When Krouse finds the next unaddressed package, he doesn't hesitate to open it. Once he sees what's inside, he almost wishes he had.

Withered flowers are evocative. The associations that come to mind aren't great ones. Krouse is getting a sense that these secrets are following a theme, and that theme isn't warm, fuzzy feelings.

He doesn't take them out of the package. They look too fragile for that. He does take the box back to the apartments with him, taking up a seat in the lobby with it balanced on his lap. Waiting on foot traffic worked last time.

The bingo card squares rewarding confessions. Rivers of compelled touch. Now this. Playing a game within the rules.

He's looking at the flowers when the door opens. His head doesn't jerk up as abruptly at the sound, and he arranges a thin smile across his mouth when he recognizes the face coming inside.

"Hey," he says, lifting the box and tipping it to reveal the contents, "This ring any bells?"

Might as well cut to the point.

[neverleave]

The deal only had room for five people, and Krouse was going to be one of them.

At least this package has a name attached to it. Reading it, Natsuno thinks it's almost as if it's been specifically crafted to cause suspicion - suspicion that they are meant to overcome by bonding. Sounds like Krouse has been ruthless about something, or screwed someone over, but while Natsuno's naturally inclined toward darker interpretations, there's no point in making wild guesses.

He finds Krouse in the lobby, and whatever he was going to say is forgotten the moment he sees the content.

Natsuno... I killed again. I keep doing horrible things.

Every trace of emotion drains from Natsuno's face as he stares at the flowers. Eight of them, one for every night Tohru-chan came by his window until he's had enough with the guilt. It's been two years at this point, but the wound never seems to scab...

"Yeah, he says flatly before showing Krouse the note in his hand. "And I think you know this one."

[equivo]

Part of his suspicion is confirmed before Natsuno even opens his mouth. The blankness of his expression doesn't give anything away, but its presence is enough to tell Krouse this isn't bringing up anything good.

His carefully put together smile vanishes, his mouth thinning out. When Natsuno extends the note to him, he's braced for it to be any number of things as he leans forward, a whole host of explanations already waiting in the wings to be deployed. He can't talk his way out of everything, but he'll be fucked if he doesn't try.

And then his eyebrows come together in unfeigned confusion. He reads the note twice, holding Natsuno's package loosely in his lap, for a moment genuinely at a loss.

Then it clicks. His eyebrows relax, and something that almost looks like relief shows fleetingly through. Or maybe it's not, because when he looks back up at Natsuno, there's a wry, slightly bitter twist at one corner of his mouth.

"Lucky us," he says, ironically, and lifts up the package to offer to Natsuno. "Do you want to trade? We might as well get it over with."

Compared to when they met, the differences in Krouse are subtle but stark. It's not a radical transformation, but a shift of presence. The ambling boy out in the fields had none of the sharp animation of this one.

[neverleave]

This guy seems different, more present. Natsuno notes it the way he files everything in this new place, trying to figure out the limits and his fellow - allies? rivals? Too soon to tell - but assumes it's the shock of arrival wearing off.

He watches Krouse's reaction to the note - not what he expected? But still nothing good.

"That's the point of this 'exercise', right?" He takes the package and places the lid back. Once closed, Natsuno doesn't spare it another glance, but there's gentleness in the way he carries it. It's not exactly a dark secret, certainly nothing he's ashamed of, but Tohru-chan's memory is his.

"Someone put these by my window, a long time ago."

quicksilver has no sense of tact | rufus | closed

[equivo]

Clones on the loose and a time limit for dealing with it. It's practically fucking nostalgic.

Krouse took the knife. He doesn't think he'll be able to leave it at that, but it's better than nothing. He improvises a loose sheath for it out of pleather slit off the front of a hospital waiting room chair and stitched together with the thickest suture thread he could find, which looks like shit, but keeps the knife from carving into him when he tucks it into his belt.

His next stop was the apartment rec room. Four of the billiard balls sit in a rumpled pillowcase next to him as Krouse works at the rigid wood of a pool cue with the blade of a pocket knife, whittling it to an ugly, sharp point. He pauses occasionally to ash the cigarette hanging from his mouth into a coffee cup set next to him, his eyes flat and distant in the studied neutrality of his expression.

Inside his wrist, a timer ticks down. He only looks at it sometimes.

[unionized]

It's an open question why Rufus has decided that his current socially-palatable coping mechanism of choice is going to be playing pool. Maybe it's because it comes with fewer snap judgments than drinking or smoking would. Maybe it's because it gives him an opportunity to hone a skill rather than dulling a sense. Maybe there's just a certain ASMR to making the balls click as they strike each other before going thunk into their pockets. It's anyone's guess, really.

The numbers on his wrist are message enough, however vaguely-delivered. In a place where the name of the game is ostensibly to justify the continued existence of their worlds, a countdown to anything isn't hard to mark as a thinly-veiled threat. Time's running out; clear the objective, or else.

There's a few problems with the objective, though. One of them is that the clone is, at best estimation, a fairly reasonable copy of himself. He's not an easy person to kill, so he has no reason to think that his clone is going to be, either. The other problem is that, assuming the clone is of similar physical and intellectual capacity, it's going to think of any scheme he comes up with at approximately the same time he does himself. Which means unpredictable outsourcing becomes the next most viable option — not ideal in a lot of ways, but still viable.

He's heading for the pool table as a way of giving himself something to do while he thinks through his options, which is also how he discovers the teenager sitting in a corner of the room clearly arming himself for battle, which ordinarily would just provoke a nod of "relatable" out of Rufus but for the fact that he was going to use that cue, actually, prior to it being turned into some sort of caveman-like stabbing implement.

He tilts his head slightly as he regards the stranger, his voice dry as a desert but not altogether unamused.

"Going to replace that when you're done with it? Or should I just write it off as a total loss."

[equivo]

Krouse looked up briefly when the stranger walked into the room, then dropped his gaze like it was a weight he didn't care to hold up. His second look when he's addressed is more deliberate, a scan of the man from toe to head with all of the mildness of paint thinner. He brings the hand still holding the Swiss Army knife up to his mouth to anchor the filter of his cigarette as he takes a pull that flares the tip, tilting the live edge of the short blade away from the vulnerable planes of his face with the practice of someone used to juggling cigarettes with full hands.

"Sure," he says, coolly, pulling knife and smoke away so he can tap fresh ash into the mug, "I'll pop right down to the pool supply store after I'm done."

It's structured like a joke, but whatever levity might be in it is layered under a varnish of glossy and cavalier dismissal. He couldn't give less of a fuck if he was trying.

Not this guy's fault, or so Krouse assumes. He keeps his attention on him anyway as he leans forward and puts the pocket knife down on the low table next to the mug.

"Funny question," he says, still humourless, "But bear with me. Original or double?"

He's assuming the answer will be 'original'. An original would tell the truth, and a double would lie. The actual words aren't important. It's how it's said that he's watching for, the placement of his hands on his improvised soear studiedly casual.

[unionized]

Reno, Rufus thinks silently, unfazed and undeterred as he watches his compatriot's movements — the effortlessness, the way they're almost elegant in execution for all that they're rough in nature. He acts the way that Reno does, an odd juxtaposition of smooth affect and jagged edges. It's how people act when they grow up in the Midgar slums, when they don't have the benefits of affluence so they have to claim power from threats of violence instead. Look how well I can handle myself, the body language screams. My hands know the balance of a knife. My lungs know the burn of smoke. You're nothing to me. I've demarcated the bounds of my world and I'm the king of all that the light touches.

Interesting, to say the least. Maybe it's the familiarity that makes him more willing to indulge it. Maybe it's the fact that the kid asks a question too stupid at face value to take it at face value, which gives way to the litmus test underneath it. And so:

"Double," Rufus answers with a vague smile, keeping his eyes on the young man's face because he'll be waiting to see if he looks to the sharpened cue. The bait is fairly conspicuous, and it'd take a lot to land a killing blow on the first hit with a piece of vaguely sharpened wood and a pocketknife. Even if an attack comes, he'll survive the first strike, and that's all that really matters because it won't make it to a second one.

"You're supposed to ask what I think the other one would say, then do the opposite," he goes on, level and calm. "Though I suspect you've already learned what you wanted. Hm?"

cracked reflection aftermath | clarke | closed

[equivo]

The leaves under Krouse's sneakers don't crackle, but squelch, the persistent rain having rendered the forest floor a sodden mess and the air between the trees scrubbed clean and cool. He's doing his best to remedy the latter, trailing smoke as he walks further into the deceptive calm of the city's outskirts.

These trips aren't meant to clear his head. They're almost when he thinks the most, outside of the small, dark hours of lying awake staring at light crawling slowly across the ceiling through the gaps in his blinds. That's why it takes him longer than it should have to realize that he's not the only one out here.

The first thing he notices about the person hunched over on a fallen log is the blood. It stops him as poised and still as a startled deer, sweeping over their immediate surroundings for a sign of what the source could be until he's assured that whatever it was, it's not imminently obvious. Whatever happened, it probably happened somewhere else.

So after that handful of seconds, he returns his attention to whoever it is that's claimed this corner of the woods, mostly to start planning how he leaves unobtrusively.

He recognizes her. It's the hair, first, the parts still blonde, and then the curve of her clenched jaw. They've only met once, but it seems like she made enough of an impression to stick with him.

Clarke Griffin. Attempted interrogator of AI, chess player, amateur charades enthusiast, and currently visibly fucking miserable. All the more reason to leave, and he starts to. His fixed weight unsticks from the tensed stance he took up, and he glances sideways to map out the least visible path through the trees possible.

She didn't give him the sense of someone who'd appreciate being seen like this when she must have come out here to avoid exactly that. It's not his business, and it's not his problem.

But if he can see her, she's probably already seen him. His oversized coat is a dull greenish brown, but the hoodie visible underneath it is a bright primary red. He wasn't trying to be inconspicuous. If he leaves, she's going to notice him leaving, and that's the kind of thing that stays with people.

He should check on her first. It's the decent seeming thing to do. Then he can go.

Krouse approaches her casually, eyes trained on the ground ahead of him, like there's nothing unusual to be seen anywhere else. The log is thankfully long enough that he can take up a seat on it a reasonable distance away, kicking one foot out in front of him as he takes a long drag on his half-smoked cigarette.

"Hey," he says, quietly, in a clouded exhale.

[skaikru]

Running away to the woods after an atrocity isn't an entirely new method of self soothing for Clarke Griffin. It never works, she's not entirely sure why she does it, but after systematically stabbing through the hearts of three of her friends' likenesses, the cool dark deep of the Outskirts seems a lot more inviting than facing the real versions of Natsuno Yuuki, Rita Mordio, or Octavia Blake ever again. Even as she stumbles from tree trunk to tree trunk, she knows it's futile. There's no avoiding the others forever, even if she attempted to stay outside city limits for just a week, one of them would ultimately try to track her down after all the chaos. That's what it means to be cared about, someone would worry for her; and this is what it means for her to care, that she'd kill for them.

Pressure builds and builds and builds in her lungs, there is the distinct sensation of a cold hand reaching through her sternum to squeeze heart and lungs like a vice, but somehow she hasn't cried yet. The urge is there, like bile in the back of her throat she can't quite throw up; the need to lay down in rotting fallen leaves and sob until catharsis cauterizes every open nerve and she can begin shoving these most recent memories into neat metaphorical bottles to be compartmentalized and buried. But no matter how far she walks from the blinking lights of Etraya, the release of free flowing tears never comes. Even when her legs start to twinge and she finds a suitable log to settle against while the rain-damp earth soaks through the butt of her cargo pants, the release doesn't come. Once or twice, Clarke attempts to jumpstart her own emotions; gasps and gags on the cool night air, looks up at the evening moons and swirls of different planets above while blinking aggressively but she just... can't —

And sometimes emotion overrides survival instinct. She doesn't hear the wet footsteps of anyone approaching, nor sense that very base human awareness of when they're not alone (you know, the way the air suddenly seems thick and echoes don't reverberate like they should). No, it's actually the faint scent of cigarette smoke as the wind shifts that has Clarke snapping out of her self imposed penance. It's not completely dark out yet, and not hard to pick out a slip of bright red hoodie and human face among the foliage.

For a second, she tenses like she expects another fight but it's just Krouse.

Just Krouse, but is that for better or for worse? Clarke is beyond tired and can't figure it out herself. So despite very obviously looking his way, she subsequently drops her head and stares, unseeing, at the motley assortment of wet grass, fallen leaves, and dirt just a step above mud between her legs. Her shoulders shake ever so slightly, but that could be excused as an April evening chill, right? Maybe he'll just walk on, or retreat like that alarmed one headed deer in headlights look made it seem like he wanted to but —

Oh. No. He's strolled closer, he's sat on the log Clarke currently has her back against, relentlessly pressing like the scrape of bark through a dark navy athletic shirt could take some of the anguish she felt inside and turn it into outside hurt. The stink of tobacco grows stronger and she wrinkles her nose, but resolutely never looks at him. Even when he speaks. Quiet and casual, not immediately addressing the fact she looks like she's just self extricated from a pile of bodies.

"Hi," is the best she can manage back in terms of greeting, voice nasal and cracking. There is a swell in the back of her throat that begins to take shape in the form of the words go away, but more distracting is the distinctive burn behind her eyes. And here she is, hands too covered in blood to even rub at her face, for fear of completing the ominous painting of vicious murderer.

Clarke goes to sniff, chokes a little on her own snot, and turns her head completely away from Krouse in order to cough it out.

[equivo]

Krouse doesn't know what he was hoping for, if he was hoping for anything. To be met with a fake brave face, or told to fuck off and leave her alone, or absolutely anything but this.

This isn't misery. This is wreckage. A bloodied huddle of ripped open vulnerability so raw he wants to look at it almost as little as she wants him to see it. The unobstructed spaciousness of the forest shifts from security to oppression in an instant, all the ways that she can be witnessed like this a hot crackle of awareness down his spine.

When she coughs, choking on a sob that won't come, something fragile under his ribs stretches and snaps. He doesn't think. He just reacts, as ready and practiced as breathing.

He stubs his cigarette out on the wet bark next to him, scanning the trees one more time from a different perspective. They're still clear, for now. He'll keep an eye on it.

"Are you hurt?" He asks, soft and calm, the question pitched quiet, just for her, even if there's no one else around to hear it.

[skaikru]

There's something almost childish in the way she avoids looking at him, akin to the way small kids hid under the covers to avoid the monsters made from their own imaginations; if I can't see all of you, you can't see all of me. Clarke recovers from her coughing fit and for a brief moment thinks that'll be enough to finally edge fat, wet tears over the crest of her waterline but... Still, nothing. Her hair isn't completely drenched with blood the same way Octavia's had been when she first arrived here, but it's flecked with drying, not-quite-right shades of red. And it serves as a curtain, one more barrier to obscure the ruddy, purple flush of her cheeks as she screws up her face.

"Nope." Not physically, not hurt in any way that matters or requires tending. Turns out she knew her friends and their fighting styles well enough to walk away without any grievous injuries. If he'd never stumbled across her in this moment and they'd just met up again a few days later, Clarke would have folded that ache in her heart over on itself so many times Krouse wouldn't have ever suspected something had been wrong. She's okay, she's whole, she's —

"I'm fine." The more she talks, the more she can overcome that initial break in her vocal chords. There is a growing disconnect between how viciously Clarke shivers and how even her voice becomes, almost completely flat as she continues: "Just needed a minute. You can keep on with whatever you were doing."