EVENT LOG: WILD HEART PART ONE

[inthenightmods]

EVENT LOG:
WILD HEART PART ONE

characters: everyone.
location: the medical center; all in town.
date/time: march 20-22.
content: half the town is captured; the other half comes to their rescue.
warnings: torture, possible character death.

to think everything must die for anyone to matter.

Welcome to part one of the WILD HEART event! The prompts below are intended to cover all the main parts of the event, but you're all free to take your own liberties with the details. The prompts are meant to add flavor, not to limit you.

Kimiko and the gang will make their debut in part two! If you've got questions for the Hunt, they'll be available in the next event log. If you've got questions for us, hit up the OOC post!

captives.

KIDNAPPED

You wake to hands gripping you, muffling your shout of surprise and pinning your limbs to your sides. Spirits large and small surround you, staring at you blankly as they lift you out of bed. You have the sickening sense of movement, and suddenly you're outside-- you can see the flickering of the bonfire flame, feel the chill of the spring air. You have just enough time to renew your struggle once more before a spirit's hand raises, flying down to strike you on the temple, and then you know no more.

When you wake, you're in a room that seems long since abandoned. Cracked tiles are chilly beneath you, and the walls are a nondescript, faded color you can't make out. You're far from alone, though: at least twenty others surround you, waking up slowly.

Why are you locked in here? What's going on? Nobody may have answers yet, but at least you can be confused together.

TORTURE

Of course, you aren't confused for long. Soon the door opens, and without warning you're grabbed by a large spirit, dragged along whether to cooperate or not. You're led into an enormous room full of what must have once been sterile medical equipment, ranging from gurneys to scalpels and everything in between. Pushed onto an operating table, your arms are spread out, strapped down; further straps are pulled tight against your legs, your hips, keeping you still.

A green-eyed spirit comes into your line of vision. They hover over you, staring down blankly. Breathes heavily . . . and then, slowly, reaches for you.

CW: hallucinations

In an instant, you're somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Where? Only you know, because it's a nightmare personalized just for you. The scene of your darkest nightmare, a jagged mix of all the worst things you fear. It's endless, cruel in its relentlessness-- and just when you think it may be over, it melts seamlessly into another, and another. Your insecurities, your failures, your terrors, your loved ones bloody and dead, joining you in this endless purgatory dimension . . .

Or maybe it's not as personal as that. Maybe you simply wake up in a room: white, blank, featureless. Devoid of doors or windows, with no colors to break up your vision, and the only sounds the ones you generate. You scream, maybe, or pry at the walls. Perhaps you sit, assuming this will end soon, that you'll wake up soon and be perfectly all right.

But it doesn't end. Not for minutes, and those melt into hours-- and those melt into days, maybe, except you don't know, because you're trapped there. You don't grow hungry or thirsty; sometimes you sleep, and when you wake, you're still in the room. You're still in the room no matter what you do, or so it seems, caught in the hallucinations as you are.

CW: gore, blood-mixing

The scalpel that slices into you is slow and steady, piercing and splitting skin with terrible effciency. Flesh parts beneath the rusted blade, blood welling immediately to the surface, gushing forth and spilling down the sides of your body-- but suddenly you aren't so concerned with the blood, because the pain's hit and it is nothing, nothing you can ignore. White-hot and piercing, and maybe you're screaming and maybe you try to keep silent but it doesn't matter because either way it does not stop. Not until the spirit is through, cutting into you all over, your legs and your arms and your stomach and your chest, slicing you open like a butcher with his cut of meat, so terribly impersonal as you writhe in agony.

And then, suddenly, it ends. Just like that.

Cutting's only the first part, after all.

Setting the scalpel down, they reach for a bucket next, filled with a dark liquid. Dipping their fingers into it-- and you know, suddenly, that it's blood-- they smear it into the open wounds. Over and over, coating them in it, scooping out your own blood so they can replace it with their supply, like the world's crudest attempt at a blood transfusion. They care not for your pain, nor the way you struggle and writhe; they care only about replacing every single drop of blood in your body.

CW: force-feeding, hints of cannibalism

Your mouth is pried open by a spirit's dextrous fingers, knocking against your teeth, dodging your tongue so they can get a good hook in your jaw. The smell of blood is thick in the air, mixing with a particularly sweet stench that you can't place. There's blood on the spirit's fingers, too, and you choke on the taste of it as it mixes with your saliva and slips down your throat.

With their other hand they grip bloody chunks of meat. In a moment of horrifying clarify you realize what's about to happen just a split-second before it does, but it's too late to protest. The spirit shoves the meat into your mouth, so deep into your throat you gag in a reflex attempt not to choke. Blood pours down your throat, the meat slimy in its rawness, but the spirit refuses to let you spit it out: they cover your mouth and nose, cutting off your air, until you chew and swallow. Not just the one piece, but more and more.

If you look down, you'll see a hint as to what you're being fed: there's a few fingers scattered in the meat, a tongue, an eyeball . . . and a few feet away, a mask, broken and discarded. One of the spirits that had brought you here.

DOWNTIME

After all the tortures you've gone through, you've lost all sense of time. But at least you're not alone: all around you are the faces of those kidnapped alongside you. Some are sporting injuries similar to yours; others seem to nurse invisible ones, flinching at shadows or gagging at the smell of blood.

Perhaps you're too injured to do anything but rest. But perhaps not. Do you try and aid the others? There's plenty hurt who need some attention, whether it be medicine or simple emotional comfort. Or maybe you're more focused on the future instead of the present, desperately plotting an escape before your captors come back.

ESCAPE

Movement, noise, all different from the chirps and hoots you've grown accustomed to over the past three days (and that's to say nothing of the screams of your fellow captives). There's shouting, voices deep and piping both, indistinct words echoing down the hallway and into your disbeliving ears. Hallucinations? No, they're too insistent and chaotic for that. It feels too good to be true, but it is. They're human voices.

The rescue is underway.

Now what? Do you try and break free? Shout to let the others know where you are? Or perhaps you're too injured for that. Perhaps you want to help those who are even worse off than you, weakened by their tortures. Whatever you do, decide quickly: it isn't long before someone breaks down the door and urges you to flee into the night, where the Wild Hunt awaits, ready to guide you back to town.

rescuers.

WAKING

Friday morning, the town feels emptier than usual. The population has never been enormous, of course, but even still, as you go through your morning routine, you find there's simply fewer people around. Surely they're not all asleep, right? And weren't you supposed to meet someone after breakfast, anyway? But there's nothing.

It doesn't take long before you and the others realize what's happened. At least twenty residents, if not more, have simply vanished. Are they dead? It seems unlikely. What about missing? But it seems strange that so many would simply disappear, and even if they did, where would they go?

You aren't the only one asking these questions. Soon everyone is talking about it, and that only invites even more questions. Some people want to go into the woods to search; others suggest caution, waiting and seeing. The debate seems endless-- until someone points out that there seems to be a more immediate situation on hand.

They melt out of the shadows, not magically so much as very, very good at blending in with the trees and the darkness. Clad in cloaks, mirrors masking their faces, they number at least fifty strong. There's no aggression in their posture; rather, they seem to be waiting for something. Someone.

She doesn't keep them waiting for long.

A woman dressed in a tailored suit emerges. Her mask is tied to her hip. Her gaze is steady, but there's warmth there as well as she looks around at all of you.

"Your friends aren't dead," she says. "They haven't disappeared, either. One of my scouts saw them being taken a few hours ago. If you wish to save them, you're going to need our help. We know where they plan on taking your friends, and we know how to fight. We'll teach you how to save your friends with the minimal amount of loss.

"My name is Kimiko Yasutake, and I am the current leader of the Wild Hunt.

Now. Are you ready to learn?"

TRAINING

You work. You sweat. The regiment Kimiko and her fellows put you through isn't easy, but she wasn't lying: she really does know what she's doing. By the end of the day not only do you know how to sufficiently wield a spear or a knife, but what to do if you're outnumbered or surrounded. You know what to do against an enemy taller than you; you know what to do should you be left without a weapon.

Whether or not you do any of these things is up to you, of course. Instruction can't replace muscle memory. But at least you know the basics, and that's worth something. Besides: you have all day to practice, and members of the Wild Hunt are eager to help correct you as you do.

RESCUE

The captives are evidently being held in the surgical wing and its adjoining operating rooms, and the abandoned hospital halls make for a contained battlefield. Most of the regular forest spirits scatter when the assault begins, skittering out of windows or barreling straight past the attacking residents, not interested in fighting for this cause... But not all. The meaner spirits stay to fight, perhaps just for the thrill of it.

And then of course there's the green-eyed spirits. There aren't many, maybe only a dozen or so, but they're strong. They typically look roughly humanoid (not always, though) and their limbs are ...troubling, in a too-long sort of way. They prefer to fight from a distance when possible, inflicting terrible hallucinations of monsters and gore and whatever they think might put off an attacker—and these hallucinations are powerful enough to do real damage. Just because it's a hallucination that tore off your arm doesn't mean your arm is any less torn off! But when they're forced to confront their attackers in close quarters, they rely on those long limbs to tear and rip at anything they can get their hands (or teeth) on. The green-eyed spirits can be killed just like any other forest spirit, but it'll take some doing. Dismembering them until their body dissolves is the only way to make sure they won't come back.

The plan is simple: surround the medical center as covertly as possible before Kimiko gives some signal to her crew. The key to victory is overwhelming the enemy as completely as possible, from all angles at once—and that's what happens.

The hospital halls force the spirits into a bottleneck; some stay to defend the operating rooms while others attempt to sneak through the windows or the ventilation shafts to attack you from behind. The green-eyed spirits shriek horrible melodies that echo through the hospital, loud enough that their voices might damage your hearing if you're standing too close. The spirits don't use much in the way of weapons, at least, but they'll hurl any debris or furniture that gets in their way.

But your numbers are greater than theirs. Progress is made quickly as the green-eyeds are forced to retreat little by little, until they've lost their claim on the operating rooms, and thus the battle. Most of them will escape back into the forest before they can be eradicated, and surely both sides have suffered losses—but you've won.

(many of our monster images are credited to Trevor Henderson!)

RETURN

The green-eyed spirits flee back to the forest before long, and the surgical wing is left open for the rescuers to free the captives. The Wild Hunt hangs back as the rescuers reunite with their friends and fellow residents, although they're step in to assist with any medical emergencies as needed—enough of them have rudimentary training in field medicine, and they'll be able to patch up any survivors enough to get them back to town.

There are survivors, is the important thing. The kidnapping and subsequent battle has no doubt resulted in many casualties, but you are alive, and now it's time to head home.

The Wild Hunt keeps a perimeter around the group as they slowly make their way back to Bonfire Square. From there, recovery can begin. Kimiko and the others promise to stay in town long enough to answer your questions and help with any repairs necessary in the aftermath, though they'll need to, er, make some arrangements before they can dive in. In other words, stay tuned for part two!

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Comments

Rosinante | OTA

[callada]

Kidnapped: May 20

It takes several very large spirits to haul Rosinante out of the room and he puts up a formidable fight all the same, shouting and punching and trying his best to prop himself into the doorway with his long limbs. This is one time he doesn't want to be quiet. The spirits learn quickly and one delivers a swift chop to the throat while another forces a sharp elbow-like appendage into his stomach. He sputters, gagging, before they knock him out and drag him off.

He comes in and out of consciousness over the course of the first day. They've given him something to dull his reflexes, he's sure of it, because never in his life has his mind or body been so sluggish. What he does remember with a sudden jolt, sharp and clear, was the surgery room, and the face of the doctor within - a boy, piercing eyes ringed with too much age for his time, a scalpel in one hand. You don't need this. Ah, fascinating. But how does the tissue grow up and around -

Immediately, Rosinante tries to bolt to his feet and seek out the room, the boy, the spirit who dares adopt his face. Instead, he plummets to the ground on unsteady legs and feels the cold, blood-slicked ground against bare skin. They've stripped off his shirt, and the hallucinations were not entirely false, for he sees now that they've been prodding and slicing at his chest, his back, as if trying to make sense of how his ribcage has overtaken the flesh and grown outside it, thanks to this place.

He has enough energy still to push himself up so he can sit, and he looks around at the room and his fellow captives. "Where the hell are we?"

Downtime: May 21

The procedures, the torture, the cruelty has lasted for years in Rosinante's mind. He doesn't scream when they drag him in and the only way he thinks he can keep track of time is by the age of the boy's face. Law now looks as he did in the most recent of the newspapers Pluto had given him - taller, older, with eyes just as sharp as ever but with irises bright green. Rosinante knows it's a hallucination and he clings to that knowledge; sometimes he thinks he even sees through it and recognizes the creature and its mask that seems so obsessed with making its apparently random cuts so it can fill them with new blood.

Eventually they finish the latest round and throw him back into the room with the others. He stumbles and slumps against the wall, missing a few ribs now, covered in too many colors of blood. It mats his hair, hangs into his eyes.

His mouth moves as if speaking a few times and it only seems to register after a handful of attempts that nobody can hear him. It takes so much effort to raise his hand and flop it uselessly against his mangled torso but he manages it and cancels the calm, revealing the liquid gurgle as he breathes. "Why," he tries again, then closes his eyes and nods. "Do they ever tell you why?"

Rescue: May 22-after

By the time the rescuers arrive, Rosinante is fading in and out of consciousness, but he's still alive. He looks like he probably needs some healing of some sort before anyone even attempts to move him, and it's going to require someone very large to carry this much weight out of here. But he manages to open his eyes at the sound of voices, lift his head from where he's lying in the mess on the floor, and curl his fingers around his lantern as if he's ready to go.

Eventually, given a day or two to sleep and recover from his injuries (should someone manage to patch him up), he'll just be found curled up on his bed in The Invincible for a while, reading. He's in no state to get around on his own. Maybe someone should check in on him and bring him something to eat. He'd probably appreciate it.

((As always, feel free to wildcard at me if you want to do something else during this event! I'm so here for all of it!))

Rescue

[reigniter]

Ignis was glad that they had managed to get everyone away from that place; Ignis managed to come out with only some scratches and stab wounds- nothing bad enough to keep him in bed. It took time and careful maneuvering, especially when it comes to injured people. His healing abilities are almost none here, so all he could do is patch up some cuts and gashes. Which, compared to his previous abilities, is laughable.

Still, he comes around to see the injured people at the Invincible and cook at least one meal per day for them and tend to the wounds by changing the bandages. After finishing up things in the kitchen and turning off the stove, he fills a big bowl with rice and curry and, with a medkit under his arm, heads to Rosinante's room.

"Rosinante? Are you awake?" Ignis asks, after knocking gently, through the closed door.

Misty Day

[shadowsran]

I. Waking

She has one cabinmate to keep track of. He is, to his credit and her frequent relief, not one to deviate from a set schedule.

He deviates. He leaves no message. It's all of thirty minutes after waking that she knows, knows, something unfortunate is happening. It's one more hour to traverse every inch of stomping grounds in a manner that won't appear in passing to be all that panicked. Either something exceptional but harmless is going on and she'll look foolish, or something harmful is going on. And it wouldn't do to encourage panic. Eventually, regrettably, she resorts to the network. She's developed a disinclination to post, and her message is suitably brief.

Has anyone seen Soldat?

II. Training

It all melts into a kind of tranquility. A focus only clouded by hotter-running emotions when she stops moving and lets herself think, which stops happening once she's troubleshot that far. Abilities as she has are easy to cling to, but it seems an eventuality in this place that they'll all be on the receiving end of - if not the exact treatment the others are undergoing, something equivalent. That already diminished powersets can be weakened only further. Makes sense to learn. Feels good to learn. It keeps her moving fine enough. Even without the more paranoid justifications, the tactics on offer are useful ones to pick up. Combat as presented is far from her wheelhouse; this much is of obvious use. There's opportunity to scope out new players, but that's a reach. She'll come apart at the seams if she doesn't keep occupied.

Brief periods of respite are marked quite consistently by the destruction of nearby objects. It never extends so far as a proper structure, she has some control, but the middle ground is blurry. Fenceposts may spectacularly crumble to splinters, mailboxes contort and dent as if someone were taking a bat to it, windows may rattle, crack, or shatter. Training blades may take on a sudden undesirable bend, or bury themselves in whatever flat surface they rest upon. Gathered together as everyone is, there's the slight problem of accidental friendly fire.

Should something a little too close for comfort be made suddenly unrecognizable by some unseen-but-intense force (or should debris of any kind present a real danger), all comes to an abrupt halt. Right. Composure.

"Sorry," she offers, sincere and flat and apologetic and seething for the inability to apply that same force to anything deserving. "You okay?"

III. Rescue

A) The approach is tense, and as the group leaves town, she may seem more amenable to conversation with strangers than she does typically. Hoping, even. Something to shake the nerves out before every movement matters.

B) The fight is a beeline. A slow, grueling one, but a beeline. Hallucinations tend toward old, familiar evils; this is the first she finds a certain intimacy with fearful unreality can be of some use. Every nonexistent frog split open is a dull ache in her wrist, but pounds per square inch of force being applied to the torso and head of any looming hint of green she happens upon. The greatest danger long distance presents comes in the form of an imagined pyre -- she freezes, bound by nonexistent restraints, gasping at air that feels so impossibly, unbearably hot--

It's terribly vulnerable, for obvious reasons. Statistically speaking there's a Sora either within twenty feet or zeroing in on such, but the sooner any jolt to reality the better.

C) She appears, quite literally, out of nowhere. A multicolored blur moving without touching ground, but not flying. It had been with some delight, ages ago, she realized transmutation from one spot to another kept momentum. A healthy fall off of a tall object or being knocked strongly in any one direction could be re-aimed. Targeted, as it is now, behind the point of a rapier pilfered from the armory. She soars past on a locked trajectory that guides the blade into the shoulder of a looming green-eye. There's hardly any hope of the blade cleaving, but given the hurry she was in - perhaps the individual passed saw them coming, perhaps not, but she had kinetic force to be put to use and saw an opportunity - she can, and does, count it as a fine effort. The price of this rare bout of hot-headed short-sightedness: she's quite literally dangling off of aforementioned beastie. If you weren't alerted to its presence before, you are now. Help may be appreciated.

IV. Return

There is an incredible amount of focus on Soldat. He is the undeniable priority, as might be made quite obvious by the loud searching for him the instant the operating room is breached.

This is of course not to say that she disregards anyone she may stumble upon first. A satchel of material hangs at her hip, and any grievously wounded can expect a knee taken at their side, and all manner of curious (and at times counter intuitive) organic matter to be applied to any manner of wounds. Gaps in skin will be quite literally packed before hastily covered. Those unable to walk will be offered an immediate drop-off to Beacon - strangers they may be, she'll point out the benefit of a moment's contact over a long walk back.

The unmaimed receive arms held apart, no display of hostility. A voice literally practiced on spooked and injured animals gently reassuring them they're alright, and everyone is there to bring them back.

Those who need to be made sick - hey, she can help with that.

Everything about the place leaves her tense and twitchy and itching to retreat to the back of her head for a week, but it's swallowed back and will remain so until it's all done with. For the first time, she'll be publicly lending her healing abilities to any that need it, until everyone is either back to rights or on the mend.

Then it's back home.

V. Wildcard

Throw a thing.

III-B

[notthatjason]

Perhaps it's due to having been exposed to them during the Feast months back, perhaps it has something to do with his demigod training. Whatever the case is, Jason is practically a tornado of movement. Sometimes literally so with the wind gusting up around him as a kind of barrier and his own speed in combat enhanced.

The Wild Hunt might have given them training, but Jason had been training for YEARS to do stuff like this and their particular brand had just helped him realize the rest of Beacon's styles, weaknesses, and strengths. He's more in tune with the rescue party and though it's hard to tell, he keeps an eye on them like any good praetor should.

So it's not hard for him to notice, even as he strikes down a particularly toothy spirit, that Misty has gotten caught up in a hallucination. He moves to assist, but the Green Eyed spirit turns its powers on him as well. For a second he feels his feet sinking into the ground, tree roots trying to force their way up into the soles of his feet.

He grits his teeth and shouts, "IT'S NOT REAL!" There's a clap of thunder and Jason pulls down at the sky. Lightning bursts against the Green Eyed spirit and the hallucination drops as it has to deal with very real lightning. Jason winces as he rushes over to Misty, his feet very tender like several nails had been driven in to them.

"We need to keep moving!"

vanitas | kingdom hearts | ota

[evulsed]

pre-rescue | CW: blood, vomit | open

[evulsed]

[ Hallucinations might have been a blessing. There is so little that could be used to leverage against Vanitas; an endless void of floating would have been relaxing compared to this. But the spirits, as always, know better than that.

He's not exempt from pain. Vanitas screams just as loud, if not louder, than anyone else suffering— and maybe it's because his pain is two-fold. Every cut into his body sheds a fresh flood of Unversed, and those are just as dangerous, if not more so, than Vanitas himself. Every one that comes off of him is disfigured by his agony, and if they weren't destroyed on sight, would flood the green-eyed spirits immediately. They cut, and destroy— an endless cycle of anguish that leaves Vanitas sweating and panting and glazed by the time they let him go.

This isn't the first blood transfusion he's had in this world, if it could be called that— but who knows what they're putting inside of him? Maybe that's half the reason he folds over onto hands and knees and heaves when they let him go. Black surges out of him, not from his shadow or his body, but surging out of his mouth, thick and viscous. The Unversed borne from it isn't whole, it squirms in a puddle, emitting a high-pitched whine, unable to take shape. Vanitas puts his fist through it to put it out of it's misery, even as he pants, his mouth black and shining. ]

carmilla | ota & closed prompts (TW: BLOOD, INJURY, BULIMIA)

[vampirella]

BEFORE.

( Carmilla has been in a ... mood lately. there's not a better word for it. she is especially sharp, especially stand-offish, and especially prone to just walking away from people mid conversation. far more so than usual. she's of course not at all inclined to explain why, even if someone bothered to ask.

she would be the last person to admit she cares even remotely about people dying, and disappearing, and fading off into the dark.

so, before it all happens, she can be found at the invincible bar. her eyeliner is smudged past the point of punk rock to the point you'd almost mistake her for crying at some point, but clearly, that's not it. maybe it's all the alcohol she's throwing back making her eyes water. that has to be it. her head is lolled into her hand as she idly twirls a dark-tipped finger around the rim of her glass. )

How much longer is this going to go on? Uselessly dwindling until they come to finish the job? ( is that a rhetorical question? is she asking someone nearby? is she even aware there's someone around? impossible to say on all counts. )

TAKEN.
closed to vanitas.

( it's as "morning" as it gets in Beacon before she bothers to stumble out of the Invincible. she's a vampire, with a vampire's constitution to match. she could have put back every drop in the place and still managed to keep her feet on the way home. she could teleport there just as easily and yet considering she doesn't have much to do when she gets back to the hotel besides another useless blackout, might as well walk. it's a decision she's bound to regret.

she feels the grab more than she sees it. there's a sudden twist in her gut and she almost thinks her overly inebriated body stumbled and she fell, and she's far gone enough that she didn't notice until she hit the deck. but when she comes to and the lurch settles, she's still on her feet. she doesn't know enough yet to try and run, though there's an uncanny sense of wrongness as she stares at the bonfire.

she spots Vanitas before she spots the spirits. her first thought is that she's distinctly not sober enough to have patience for the kid when she sees the looming spirits — exposed muscles, unbearably long limbs, and green flashing eyes in the oppressive dark of dawn. her stomach drops, again, and this time it has nothing to do with being dragged from one place to another with no say in the matter. )

Let me guess, these are the bumps in the night you told me about. ( they do look like they're going to be a bit of a problem, and perhaps it's just her state of mind that doesn't insist she run, disappear in smoke like a magician’s assistant. instead her fingers are curling, tightening, planning for a fight she would probably be better off not making. )

DOWNTIME.
trigger warning for blood, injuries, and bulimic behaviors in this prompt.

( a lot of their "downtime", she simply keeps to herself. especially after the first, and second, and then the times she gets dragged out starts to swim together too much to keep count anymore. she's a little paler every time she comes back, and the black she loves to wear hides the worst of it, the old dark blood seeping out slowly but surely. first a handful of punches between her ribs, then neat little slits between her fingers and blood smeared under her nails, hinting at the cuts underneath them.

the most obvious of it is long rows of cuts down her arms, jagged tears of skin, covered in blood. it's not even all hers, but what can she say? she might need some patching up, but she doesn't do anything to go ask for it.

she actually prefers the pain to the other experiment she's lucky enough to receive. when she's thrown back into the holding room, there's blood smeared around her mouth. for a long stretch she just stays there, prone, before she wearily drags herself to her knees, hands shaking despite herself. for a moment she almost considers leaving it; for a moment, it almost feels like a blessing. blood and meat, something to sustain her, when she's been losing so much blood.

but she knows better than that, she's already been there. so, after a moment to catch her breath and will herself to doing something nobody is going to like once she's done, she sticks her fingers down her throat and wretches whatever was forced down it. it's disgusting and the result is no better, but it's probably better than her vomiting black blood for three days. she needs to get it out of her if she has any hopes of being strong enough to walk away from all this.

similarly, if she sees someone come back with their face painted red, she'll go over to them and whisper, ) I'll help you get it out. It won't be fun, but it'll be better when it's out. ( she doesn't raise her voice much, and there's something quite unusual about her tone. a sort of softness she rarely offers to anyone. )

ESCAPE.

( when the madness starts, she's ready to run. she's had enough of laying down and taking it. she's ready to get out, and she's fresh out of mercy for any spirits remaining to cut through. and since she hasn't been a damsel in a few hundred years, she's not going to wait to be saved.

she's at least kind enough to catch another misfortune soul before she busts through the door. ) It's time to go. Stick with me and I'll get you out of here. ( despite the fact she's had three days of torture the same as the rest of the room, she seems more than confident. the question is whether or not you're brave enough to follow. )

WILDCARD.
want something else? need something a bit more tailored to your character? you can catch me via pm or at meowed and we can build something together!

Downtime

[featherknives]

[If she's covered in blood- it's her own. No matter how many times they had taken her out there and then dragged her back, she fought back with whatever she could. That's why her nails are completely gone; that's why her wing is broken; that's why the cuts on her body are deliberately in the areas that can make her bleed out to the death- one such cut close to the white and pink scar on her inner thigh that did kill her last time.

But she doesn't look like she's lost her mind just yet. She's surprisingly resilient in times like these; no amount of blood loss would make her brain stop working.

When Carmilla returns for the unknown time again, she's slumped sideways against the wall. Her eyes are closed but she's not asleep. The only way she'd sleep is if someone knocked her out. Slowly, she opens her eyes when Carmilla sits down, trying to gauge the expression on her face. What did they do now...?]

They'll... fuck up somewhere... [Xayah says quietly,] ...and I'll enjoy tearing them apart.

Maes Hughes | OTA

[dadandgone]

Kidnapped (CW: Maes gets sick)
Maes had never been a heavy sleeper, not since Ishval and certainly not after his time among the Circle and here. Still, it was a quiet evening and Maes had dozed off on the couch this time, the memory jar he’d had made of Elysia resting nearby on the table just out of reach. With the opals it seemed like a moot thing, but the Speaker who had crafted it had done such a good job that he hated to let it go to waste just because he had a sizable rock collection now.

There’s a creak and just as Maes starts to open his eyes he feels something grip his ankle. It happens quickly, they descend on him like a colony of ants that just had its nest kicked over. He pushes away, scrambling over the table. There’s the sound of shattering glass and he knows the jar is smashed, but he can’t think about that right now. He tries to teleport, but sleep and panic make for poor helpers in this endeavor. He appears just outside his own cabin -- not as far as he’d wanted.

“Shit.” He concentrates, trying to stay focused on something farther off. The Invincible perhaps, but the spirits are on to him, they know what he can do. A giant fist slams into him and he drops to his knees, winded. The next blow strikes him against the back of the skull and everything goes white

When he wakes in the cell, his glasses are gone, probably knocked off from the first blow, and his head throbs painfully. A concussion? Who knows. Maes presses a hand to the floor, about to push himself up, but a wave of nausea washes over him and he has just enough time to turn away and vomit into a corner.

Anyone sharing the cell with him will see that he does NOT look good, even for the kidnapping that just occurred. He swallows hard and forces himself to look around, “You’re here too? What the,” he feels more bile rising, his head is throbbing something fierce, “what happened?”

Torture (CW: Hallucinations of War, Gun Violence, Murder)
They come for him and, once again, he tries to use the powers Astoria gave him to flee - to teleport out - if he can just get OUT of this building. He doesn’t know what they’ve done to him, but they’ve done something and it isn’t long before he drops to his knees with a cry of pain. His head pounds harder than ever and it’s so hard not to just wretch on the floor again. He’s surprised he can throw up anything anyway, he knows he hasn’t eaten in awhile.

They take him and he loses track of the turns and hallways. Terrible. How is he supposed to get out in this maze? It isn’t long before they arrive at a room. His attempts to struggle are getting less frequent, though it’s hard to tell if it is due to a weakening will or just the overwhelming sickness.

The Green Eyes loom into his view and shift into deep purple. Envy steps back from him, holding up a gun. Maes is no longer strapped down, he’s standing in the middle of the desert, dressed in his old uniform from the time of the Ishvalan war. Hundreds of Ishvalans loom before him and start to bring up guns. He’s outnumbered and he ducks behind a wall for cover as gunfire rings out. The Ishvalans scream at him, variations of murderer or traitor. He hears soldiers falling around him in battle, hears their screams, though he never sees them. Instead, his eyes are drawn to an out of place, yet familiar phone booth.

He can’t help himself, he approaches it. It looks so strange seeing that phone booth in the middle of a desert space. Maes pushes open the door and catches sight of a figure in the pane of glass. He whirls around, but suddenly his weapon is gone. Envy raises the gun, his form shimmering and turning into Gracia.

BAM!

Maes falls backwards, the bullet ripping through him, only to land on his feet in the desert again. He tries running in a different direction, but Envy and the phone booth appear every time. There is no escaping it.

It’s not always Gracia though, Envy takes on other faces as well. Next, it’s Roy. Then it’s Armstrong. Then the Elrics. Then Shiro. Then Barabas. Rosinante. Cao Pi. Sora. Daylight. Every time Envy takes a new form, occasionally bringing back Gracia, but every few rounds it’s someone else -- from Amestris, from The Circle, and from Beacon. Maes losses track of the faces.

And just when he thinks it can’t get worse, Envy points the gun at him and his form changes into that of a little girl with pigtails. Maes stumbles back against the phone booth, his knees buckling as sob breaks free, “Please no. Please. Not her. Please don’t take her from me.” He closes his eyes. It was one thing to watch everyone else do this, but he doesn’t want THIS. He didn't want to see his precious baby with the eyes of a killer.

BAM!

Maes is returned hours later. He’s shaking and tears flow freely down his face, but he doesn’t respond, in fact he appears to be in a state of shock. He’s really barely walking on his own, because the spirits just set him down as soon as he’s back in the cell and he doesn’t protest. He just pulls his legs up and weeps.

Downtime
Maes sleeps. Somehow, probably sheer exhaustion, but he does. When he hears whispers though he stirs. He’s learned to move slowly, if he does that the nausea isn’t so bad. He doesn’t open his eyes though, afraid of what he’ll see at first. He masks this hesitation by rubbing at them -- still dry from crying.

“What is it? What were you saying just now?”

He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, but he wants answers. He finally looks to who is awake and there’s a perceptible flinch and he looks over his shoulder as if checking for something (a phone booth perhaps), only when he sees the blank and bloody wall does he turn back to you, “When’d you get back?”

Escape (CW: Mentions of blood, but not super gore)
By the time the rescuers come, Maes has not just been tortured mentally. He has cuts all over his body and they are raw and bloody bright. This, combined with the nausea of whatever they’ve done to his ability, makes it difficult for him to stand. He shakily gets to his feet as the noises get closer.

He looks around the cell, “You hear that, right?”

The door bursts open and if it is someone he recognizes there is a hesitation. The Maes you knew probably would have smiled or greeted you with ‘About time.’ But that was a Maes who hadn’t gone through all of this. He doesn’t immediately step forward, in fact he’s cautiously got one hand pressed against the wall. It’s not a phone booth. It’s not a phone booth.

“Is it...is it really you?”

((ooc: Will match tagging format. If you want to do something with Maes but don't see a prompt that strikes your fancy, let me know!))

Downtime

[callada]

At first the response to Maes' questions is just ragged breathing. Rosinante is slumped heavily against the wall, but he's managing to stay upright, though his chin tips downward toward his marred chest and exposed rib bones, as if his head is too heavy to hold it upright.

"I... Nothing. Talking to myself."

Muttering his anger, which he's too powerless to act on. He's so full of so much rage and all he wants to do is break this wall, throttle the spirits, tear them to shreds with his bare hands, but he can hardly lift his own head. He certainly can't keep track of how long it's been since they threw him back down into the room. He manages to turn his head toward the sound of Maes' voice and can't help but think the guy looks like shit.

"How long have we been here?"

SORA | RESCUERS | OTA

[arsarcanum]

i. WAKING. (Open)

[arsarcanum]

a. around beacon; early

Sora's in the Landmark, around Beacon, on patrol. When he catches anyone's eye, he'll grin and walk over, even if he doesn't know who this new friend is. "Hey, how are you? Hey, listen, have you seen a friend of mine? Minato. Hair over his eye, headphones, kinda looks sleepy all the time? Or Alisaie? White hair, pointed ears?"

b. network; late; inbox @ langit; text;

[ Everyone Sora has ever greeted and swapped names with gets a text. Everyone including you, kidnappees. There may be some misfires. It's possible. He's going fast.

Each message is customized, but they're all variations on the same ideas: ]

hey just checking in how are you?

[ and: ]

hey you okay? text me back, something weird's happening

[ and later in the day: ]

hey please answer me are you there

c. around beacon; late; (cw: this guy)

The bad news has hit. It's late. Sora's back out on town, and that is odd because he really should be locked up somewhere for his own safety. He is instead wandering around the empty streets of Beacon, poking around the quiet stores and abandoned hotel rooms, his lantern swinging cracked and green at his hip.

He'll look away from and stare at everyone, both strangers and friends, for a moment, then keep walking. No greeting, no smile, no weird themey food item getting shoved into hands. Just a business-like sort of saunter along to wherever he's going, looking out into the night. Where is he going this late at night?

masaomi kida | captive | ota

[mellowyellow]

i. hallucinations

It's hard not to feel the panic rise every time that ominous door swings open. Who's next? What will happen to them? When will it be my turn?

Masaomi in particular seems to jump right out of his skin each and every time anew. He expects to see the gnarled, mutilated forms of spirits and monsters, is fully prepared to get at least a few good kicks in before he meets his fate. But instead, each and every time, the face that greets him from the other side of that door is Saki Mikajima's. He tries to help out, grabs hold of one or two of the first victims, refusing to let go. Then his ex-girlfriend smiles comfortingly at him as she tears the poor soul out of his grip. Masaomi just can't register the terrifying dichotomy.

Eventually, it's his turn. No spirit bothers to grab for him. The door simply opens as always, and Saki smiles directly at him. She beckons him with a single finger. Masaomi's heart goes cold. He swears he can feel it physically drop into his stomach. She's not real, he reminds himself, shutting his eyes tight. That doesn't change anything. He moves to stand up anyway and walks toward the door with his own two feet.


ii. downtime

It's burned into his retinas, seared into his eardrums. Saki's slender fingers daintily picking up a pair of stained surgical scissors. Saki's forgiving smile as she playfully raises a blood-soaked eye to his lips.

You've been running just a bit too long, she giggles like she's talking about a new phone app. I've been lonely, you know?

The flashes of memory sting just as much as every nick and gash.

Masaomi wipes his mouth with his ratty sleeve, keenly aware that the blood now staining his shirt is not his. He doesn't know if any of it is his anymore. He doesn't look at the stain, instead shoving both arms under his curled up knees. It doesn't help. He feels like trash, and he smells like piss, but even that doesn't overpower the rank of blood and decay hanging heavy in the air like humidity.

He needs to move. It doesn't matter that there's nowhere to go. If he stays here, he'll melt into the damn wall. Nobody will even notice. Masaomi moves to stand, but the motion is too quick. His hand slips on still wet blood, and he crashes back down, rocking his carved up body with renewed pain. His eyes mist over, blurring his vision as he starts to laugh.

"Nothing's ever gonna be enough, is it?"


iii. escape

The first thing Masaomi does when he hears a new voice outside is plug his damn ears. He curls into a ball on the floor, closes his eyes, and bites right through his already tender lip. He can't do this again. He can't see anyone else on the other side of that door. He can't go back in there and cry uselessly as he loses another part of himself.

He can't.

He's not moving until someone makes him.


iv. return

Masaomi is definitely going to need help on the long walk back to the bonfire. Bleeding out is not something people just get up and walk away from. His shaky legs give out more than once before he stops insisting he can make the journey on his own, and even then, he's adamant on accepting nothing more than a supportive shoulder.

Whether he'll get his way or not, well... That's not really for him to decide.

iii/iv mix, kinda

[scarsolderthanyou]

It's not a question of accepting help, kid. You're getting it no matter what. Stone spies him stumbling out of the building, and he's promptly scooped up onto one broad, scaly, colorless palm, and then held at arms length so Stone can look him over.

Masaomi will surely have seen Stone in this form before. He wears it often around Beacon. Even if he hasn't gotten a good look, the craggy features are the same as Stone's groundling face, just with scales, ridges, spines instead of hair, and more prominent teeth when his mouth opens a little to taste the scent coming off him. His left eye is even still clearly blind.

bruce wayne | open & closed

[pearlstrings]

W A K I N G |  open

[He knows something is wrong immediately.  There's nothing out of place or broken inside the museum, but Bruce has had time to get used to the strange black shapes that lurk in the rooms. Vanitas calls them Unversed, and though they come in different shapes and sizes, some like rats and others like rabbits, it's their behavior that sets today apart. Bruce steps carefully into the hall and is acutely aware of the quiet, but also of the hyper-awareness of the creatures around him. They aren't wary, but they're too alert, too restless.

He sends out a message and hears nothing back, but he isn't content to wait either. Bruce pulls his shoes on and reaches for a coat, then heads out towards Bonfire Square- searching the pathways and town for anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps you find him in the Invincible, crouched over gouges in the floor, or maybe you meet one another on one of the trails, where he's examining scuff marks and ripped up grass.]
Signs of a struggle.

[His head lifts.]
Is anyone you know missing?

O R G A N I Z I N G |  closed to jo, dean, eliot, q, &eleven | action or text

[He sends out messages immediately, to the first people he knows haven't gone missing, to those he thinks could best be an asset. And perhaps, to those he's coming to trust. Dean, Quentin, and Eleven will all receive the same text.]

@ wayne
Mass abduction. Bring supplies and a companion, the less impulsive the better. Meet at the post office.

[Bruce has never been one to rest on his laurels, and though he wouldn't describe himself as impulsive by nature, he doesn't hesitate at thresholds. The worst memories he carries are ones where he'd felt frozen in place, too afraid to move. Too afraid of doing the wrong thing to do anything at all. He makes his way back to the museum and changes, pulls a mask over his face and dons the light armor he hasn't worn in months. He starts gathering his supplies and makes his way to the meeting point. He knows that strangers have arrived insisting that they're here to help, but he's doubtful about the relevance of a day of knife training for an undertaking like this. He's rather strategize.]

I N F I L T R A T I N G |   closed to jo, dean, eliot, q, &eleven

[It's his first time to the medical centre, and he suspects that for some of the people inside it might be the last. All those in town that have been left behind gather together and make their way here, prepared as best as they can be. The plan that's been outlined by the outsiders is to create a bottleneck for the spirits, corralling them into one location to make them easier to overwhelm and direct the majority of the combat to one space.

But that also means they need to fan out and find ways in from a variety of different angles. Just because they're near one another now, and readying to go, doesn't mean they'll see one another again until they're back out.]

Remember, the goal is to get captives out as quickly as possible. If you go in focused on revenge it puts a captive's life in danger. 
I know this is personal. But no matter what you see, rescue first.

[He passes a few small clips around, metal clasps for everyone to fasten their lantern to their waists, to keep their hands free.]

---

[Their odds will be better the further they can get. There's no point trying to spook the spirits with an all out frontal assault only to watch them charge back in the opposite direction. After all, they don't know where the others are being kept. If they make their way in quietly, they can disrupt the chain further in.

Bruce points to two hallways that branch off, then points to an air vent above. Any takers?]

R E S C U E |  open, cw violence, blood, gore

[The spirits seem to prefer long range, and it makes sense, their limbs are suited to it. But whatever they lack in finesse they make up for in violence.

A chair is hurtled in his direction and Bruce, clad head to toe in black, face covered by a frightening mask, drops to the ground and slides behind a nearby desk. It means that he's further into the room, but also that he can't progress without your help. He's crouched, head and shoulders out of view of the spirit, but he's looking back at you, waiting for you to provide either cover or a distraction. Help?]

organizing.

[cained]

( to say that dean's a little unhinged might be something of a massive understatement. the text from bruce isn't ... well, a surprise, for one. by the time it comes, dean's already well aware of his brother and cas being missing — given everything that's happened recently, they wouldn't just up and leave without letting him know, even if cas has been ... keeping distance from the cabin more recently. dean can't dwell on that or what it means (or how it makes him feel), doesn't have the energy to. he has one singular focus: getting them back.

which means packing for a hunt — and honestly, it's about damn time, even if this isn't exactly the ideal circumstance for a hunt. then again, is any circumstance ever ideal? their hunts have always started with a body. at least this time he knows sam isn't dead; if he was, dean would be going on a suicide mission instead of bothering to play hero with anyone. he's been itching for a real fight since he got here (his little squabbles with vanitas aside), and doesn't particularly want to sit around on his ass making plans, but he does recognize that he's vastly underestimated the spirits of this place — they'd gone into that swamp underprepared; he can still feel the concrete sludge filling his lungs, the sinking hopelessness, but then he remembers the fading bruise on his cheek where sam punched him and that keeps him grounded.

unfortunately for the spirits, they've made this personal (more personal than just manipulating him with a hallucination of his mother) and this time dean isn't going in blind.

he doesn't bother responding to the text, but he does let jo know to meet him later, then heads out. he's loaded a duffel with every weapon he's managed to get his hands on, though he's really starting to miss his grenade launcher right now.

when he reaches the post office, he's already on high alert, even more so given the presence of the faction calling themselves the wild hunt. they seem to be capable, but dean doesn't need training and he certainly doesn't trust them. people keep conveniently showing up and acting helpful, which dean finds suspicious, even if the wild hunt does seem to have the right intel.

he's not exactly surprised to see bruce geared up, but — well, it does make him smile a little, despite everything. he almost makes a joke about answering the bat signal but manages to keep it to himself. )

Brought the arsenal. ( he drops the duffel on the counter, unzips it to reveal the weapons inside. ) Jo's on her way. What's our play here? No offense to our new "friends," but it feels like we're wasting ( well, not daylight ) time.

Bucky/Soldat | Kidnapped | OTA

[worthallthis]

Content warnings on each thread.

I. Pre-Kidnapping, Closed to Fjord, cw: partial and full disassociation, fighting

[worthallthis]

It's very early in the morning, 4AM if this were actually morning rather than some arbitrarily determined hour of an eternal night. Soldat meets Fjord out by the woods at the edge of the village, and the two of them start on a slightly longer patrol than usual. Hence the extra hour early. They're heading south, following the path Soldat and Daylight took to find the green-eyes last time.

Misty has not been warned this time, because Soldat fully plans to bolt if the wisdom charm or Asset-brain doesn't work to help them see through hallucinations. They will carry Fjord slung under one arm if they must. They are not in the mood for a fight, let alone another death, and Fjord is still injured. They're playing it safe.

The two pause at the edge of the metal sculpture garden for a snack, because Soldat is always fucking hungry even without the Bottomless Pit, and before going out into unknown territory seems the best time for a break.

Minimus Ambus | Rescuer | OTA for all prompts

[legalcy]

Waking

[This is worrying. There are no known spirits that can kidnap someone without notice, especially on such a large scale. There are a group of sentient beings resident in Beacon, but Robin stated they they simply murdered via lantern-stealing.

First things first, a headcount. He's outside, checking off a list of who he was able to spot before he sees another light in the forest.

No, not a light. A reflecting of their lanterns. They're the spirits he saw last month, and he regards them without much emotion until the leader speaks.]

The Wild Hunt? You mean the "Fire Snatchers"?!

[He holds a hand to his neighbor's shoulder.] I don't like the looks of this.

Rescue

[He may not be a large robot named Ultra Magnus anymore, but Minimus remains one of Cybertron's heavy lifters. With a battle hammer cobbled from scrapyard pieces, he breaks down the security doors into the next ward as spirits chase after his group of rescuers.]

Everyone, get through! Move it!

[The battlefield is where he thrives. Here, there are no messy relationships to navigate. There are only orders and tactics.]

Return

[Some of them aren't going to make the trip back, he reminds himself as he picks up one of the captives in one large metal arm, hoisting his hammer over his other shoulder. It may not be be a soft place to rest, but it is sturdy and bound not to get tired. With only a quick nod, he lets them know that they are safe for now. Perhaps a stern mustachioed face isn't the most comforting one to see, but it's one that promises total focus on protecting them until the situation has calmed down.]

[notthatjason]

[Jason was definitely in the 'let's get organized' camp and when he'd picked up on what Minimus was doing, he'd decided to tag along and see if he needed help. Jason hoped he could serve as a calming voice for some of the others -- the ones more likely to want to race off into danger.

He doesn't notice the light until he realizes Minimus is no longer looking at his check list.]

Fire Snatchers? That play the spirits did?

[Jason was more the action sort, he hadn't necessarily kept up with more recent discoveries of information. Still he lowers his voice when Minimus put a hand out. He looks at this new group cautiously and then directs another question to Minimus.]

About what?

elektra natchios | daredevil | OTA + closed (cw: torture, blood, violent imagery, purging)

[ultraviolents]

KIDNAPPING/ARRIVAL

[ she doesn't go to bed alone, but when the spirits find her matthew isn't in bed. she wakes in the middle of the night to see them hovering over her, tracing eerily elongated hands over her limbs, and she sits up, immediately alert. they reach for her and before she can make a sound, she's outside, being held by the spirits, unable to get away (not that she doesn't try, twisting and kicking and spitting curses in every language she speaks as she screams at them to let her go). she shouts for matthew, for their neighbors, for anyone who might be able to hear her, before she's knocked out and dragged away.

she comes to curled in the corner of a dirty, long discarded room, surrounded by others in various states of consciousness. her head and joints ache and she's slow as she pushes herself up, willing her mind to clear so she can take stock of who's around her and where they are. ]

TORTURE/DOWNTIME

[ they start with her scars. she's not sure why, especially since it's not long before they start carving out new ones, but they're where it hurts the most when they start trying to shove their blood in where it doesn't belong. it aches for hours after and she spends her time recuperating from it curled on her side, glaring at the door where they come to get them and trying to think of any vulnerabilities they've shown, any sort of weakness she can exploit so they can break free.

the pain is distracting, but she hates it less than being forced to consume. she does whatever she can to avoid it - biting the hands that feed her, kicking, thrashing, but in the end they always manage to get something down, something that's immediately forced back up when they return her to her cell. enough others have been forced through this that the room's started to reek of blood and bile, but at least those trapped with her have the decency to turn away when someone's deposited back with blood coating their lips.

she wipes at her mouth with the back of her wrists when she's finished purging and straightens, glaring at a spirit that's just deposited one unfortunate soul back to the masses and left with another. ]

There's got to be a way to kill them. [ it's muttered under her breath, not to anyone in particular, but if you've got an idea she'll gladly listen to it. ]

RESCUE (closed to matt murdock)

[ she's weak by the end of the last day, still fighting the spirits whenever they come for her but being mindful to conserve as much of her energy as she can.

in the end, that turns out to be the right call.

the noise is gradual, and it could just be coming from the others who were captured, but it starts to build in volume and voices and elektra knows that help has arrived. she straightens immediately, ignoring the dizziness that comes from standing and ducking to help a few others to their feet before bursting into the hallway.

she finds a weapon along the way - a stick, a metal rod, she's not sure what it is but it works - and uses it on whatever spirits get in her way. ]

WILDCARD

[ feel free to choose your own adventure, mix and match, or ask me if you'd like something more specific! i can be reached through PMs or on plurk at vdova. ]

Torture/Downtime

[mindofathief]

[Duster is weaker than ever, both from the inability to fall asleep and emptying his stomach early today. Yesterday? He doesn't know how long it's been since he last left the room.

Maybe killing them is the only way out.]

They're tough on their own. Set them on fire? [He answers the ceiling.]

daylight vis lornlit. | kidnapped. | ota. + closed.

[sunborne]

i;; a prelude to mayhem. (pre-kidnapping.)

[sunborne]

[ in the days leading up to the kidnapping, some of daylight's close friends may notice he's in a better mood lately, ever since his mood took a rather significant dip in the latter half of the last month. not enough for it to be alarming but enough for it to be noticeable.

now? he's smiling. he's humming. he's more engaged with conversations when speaking with others. day seems to be in better spirits than ever.

if asked why or when he feels like it, day is quick to reveal what has him so excited: ]

It's going to be my birthday tomorrow! [ really?

really, it seems, from the way he's smiling the biggest smile in the world at this moment. day folds his servos behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels while he hums a strange but jaunty little tune under his breath. ] The 20th! I'll be- I guess I'll be? - a 122-years-old tomorrow!

It means I make you guys gifts and share stuff around and things like that! It's been forever since I did the Dust Tumbles tradition of birthday celebration!

I'm really excited!

Fjord | Kidnapped | OTA

[fjorgedinfire]

Kidnapped

[fjorgedinfire]

Fjord isn't in his bed when he gets taken. And that's a matter of sheer luck - he and Soldat had set out early that morning, hoping to take advantage of the early hour to do a little exploration and get back onto their patrols without anyone else worrying about it. It wasn't exactly a safe mission after all; the two had gone off to try and find some Green Eyed Spirits, and see if the Wisdom charm Fjord had bought back at the last Night Market was effective against them. And flee if it were to get too dangerous.

They hadn't counted on getting ambushed and overwhelmed. Fjord had tried fighting - valiantly, it has to be said, but a solid blow to the temple had him dropping his falchion with a loud clatter and sent him straight to unconsciousness.

He only wakes up partway through being dragged through the hospital, groggy and pained, but it's the being thrown into the already crowded room, hearing the cacophenous clatter of metal beside him as Soldat gets thrown in with him, that helps shake off the worst of the heavy sopor. There's shooting pains all through him: especially his ribs, beaten rather than broken but feeling close; and his head where he got struck, leaving his ears ringing gently, and when he tries to push himself upright he barely gets higher than one knee before dizziness slaps him and the ringing turns to a high-pitched shriek inside his head, and he collapses with his head clenched in both hands.

He doesn't stay down for long - he can't, not with what they made him see, not knowing what's coming after this. He's done the kidnapping and being tortured once before, and the lack of manacles this time is no more reassuring.

"We need to get out of here." His voice is a deep growl, almost animalistic, as he tries again to push himself to his feet. "Now."

javert | rescuer | ota

[policier]

preparations

( He doesn't participate in the the Wild Hunt's training. Part of it is a matter of pride, on his behalf as well as everyone's else — what do they believe they've been doing these past several months? Sitting on their hands? He scoffs openly at them, storming off to his own secluded corner, brooding silently and beginning his own manner of battle preparations. There's a saber spread across his lap, shining and sharp, and blade oil in his hand. A day's practice isn't going to do him much good, but taking caring of his weapons may be the difference between life and death. Once he's finished sharpening his blade, he moves on to his pistol, taking it apart and cleaning it.

Should anyone come to speak to him, he'll give them a short once-over, appraising their attire as well as their weapons, should they have any. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, under his piercing gaze, he asks, )

Well? What is it?

rescue, cw: blood, violence

( Javert doesn't have anyone he's intent on rescuing. Once they're in the building, he doesn't make a beeline for anyone, nor does he allow his emotions to get the better of him. Like a good, officer, he does as he is told, forcing the spirits into choke points and taking them out one by one. He doesn't pay attention to who's around him, whether they are a rescuer like him, or a captive that's broken free of their prison. He hacks away at the spirits indiscriminately, his sword oiled and sharp enough to slice through their flesh in one precise movement.

His laborer's clothes, his face, everything is speckled with blood. It's difficult to tell how much of it is his and how much is the spirits', but he presses onward despite his injuries, his sore leg, the burns beneath his coat. Adrenaline is what keeps him moving, blocking out the pain and pushing his body to the limit. He cuts through one of the green-eyed spirit's arms, his expression stony as the creature wails. )

return

( He hangs back a little, once the spirits have retreated and the captives are slowly trickling out of the hospital. He doesn't pay any mind to those who've already been tended to, their wounds wrapped and their legs carrying them along with the help of their friends. Those that are on their own, however, he seeks out, offering them bandages and a helping hand should they need someone to lean on. He's not in much better shape himself, covered in blood as he is and limping, but he ignores it for the time being. There are others who are in a much worse way than he is, and he's used to the pain. )

preparations

[arsarcanum]

[ Sora flinches, but looks firm in his decision to leave the sessions. He doesn't like being told what to do either. Not unless it's his choice. And it was his choice until he realized he learned everything they were going to teach in the next days (days, multiple), like, three months ago. First two weeks of class with Javert, with Jason. With Soldat.

No. He's going to be with the person he knows how to drill with. ]

I want to do something else.

[ He's come away from the session with a knife, but it's the one he's been working with since Soldat gave him the weapon on his first day in Beacon. Javert will at least recognize that Sora's been using this knife only for every session since January.

Other than that, he appears to be unarmed. Sora's always used one of the practice swords that the class provided, and doesn't talk about using a sword with Javert much at all outside of Javert's instruction and criticism. He seems confident enough these days with the weapon that it's almost undeniable that he continues to practice outside of class, but what or with whom he practices isn't something Sora's shared with Javert either. ]

Theon Greyjoy | Kidnapped | OTA

[reek]

1. Kidnapped

[ Theon hasn’t slept properly since Winterfell. His sleep is always restless, full of night terrors, and when he’s first stirred from his sleep, he isn’t entirely certain what’s real and what isn’t. But when hands grab for him, he’s quick to fight. It’s a scenario all too familiar to him, and he’s determined not to let it happen again. Without a blade on him, he thrashes, he kicks, he punches and claws, he tries to bite, but none of it does any good. He wears himself out quickly enough, and he’s easy to overtake.

When he awakes again, it’s in a room he doesn’t recognize.

But it’s not a dungeon, he notes, staring at the faded walls. There are no iron bars, and the sound of screaming is oddly absent. As he glances into the faces of his fellow kidnappees, he chuckles. It’s an almost fragile sound, as if he could snap in two in an instant. ]

You’ll make for better company than the last time.

2. Hallucinations

[ Each time they come for him, he fights. He’s never let himself be beaten down before, not even by Ramsay Snow, but when the darkness closes around him, he grows infinitely less confident.

He knows this darkness. He recognizes it immediately: the crypts at Winterfell. As a boy, he’d avoided them as much as possible. Something about them disquieted him. Perhaps it was that he simply didn’t belong there. The crypts were for dead Starks, and he was a living Greyjoy.

Around him, the eyes of stone kings and stone dire wolves seem to follow him, urging him deeper into the vaults. He hears noises, a scuffle, a growl, the clink of steel on steel, but it’s nothing, surely it’s nothing. Just rodents and rot.

It’s said in the North that the dead are locked in their tombs by the iron of a sword, and so each stone king grips one in his hands—until Theon stumbles upon one that doesn’t. It’s a familiar face, and a fresh carving, too fresh for the sword to have rusted away. As Theon steps closer to observe the likeness, he thinks it looks far more realistic than it should.

And he’s correct. The eyes of Robb Stark snap open, bright and blue and accusing, and a hand reaches for his throat. Although his heart is heavy with guilt, all Theon can do is laugh. ]

Kill me, then. I deserve it. Who else should do the job but you?

[ But Robb says nothing. Robb makes no move to break his neck or to strangle him. Robb isn’t even Robb for long. He shifts right before Theon’s eyes into something grotesque and unrecognizable: something bloody and rotting and long-dead with the head of a wolf. Only then does Theon struggle, and only then does the creature speak in a voice that might have ben Robb’s once upon a time.

Your fault, it says. This is your fault, Theon.

Theon only struggles harder as the darkness closes around him.

Your fault, all of it. Your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault, your fault... ]

3. Downtime (cw: suicide ideation)

[ Each time Theon returns, he grows more silent. Eventually, his smirk disappears. Soon enough, he no longer laughs. By the end, his gaze is only on that lantern; that stupid lantern that’s been forced upon him since he arrived. He thought it some sort of jape, but he’s carried it with him none the less. He’s almost extinguished its flame twice, just to prove everyone wrong, just to show that his life-force isn’t attached to it at all.

Dead is dead, he had insisted. A man cannot die more than once.

Then why hadn’t he done it and proven it to himself? Cowardice, perhaps. Maybe stubbornness. All he feels right now is the desire to stop feeling.

Slumped against the wall, he opens the door to the lantern, brushes his fingers through the flame. Such a fragile thing. Over in an instant if what they claim is true. ]

It’s a way out. No one seems willing enough to take it.

4. Wildcard

[ For rescue or for other stuff. Find me at muttonchops or just go for it. ]

Downtime

[mindofathief]

Don't.

[It is an escape. You have control over something, at least. But then it's the end. And you can't undo it once the regret sets in.]

Who knows if you'll ever come back?

Stone | Rescuer | OTA

[scarsolderthanyou]

I. Training Shmaining

"I am a Raksura," Stone growls at the nearest masked humanoid. "I use my teeth and my claws, not your little weapons." And he bares them at the Wild Hunt in general-- much sharper than your standard human's teeth, and that's not even in winged form. "And I'm older than all of you put together. Teach me how to fight. Idiots."

So he watches, and paces, and occasionally shifts up into his big form to spread his wings and circle Beacon, trying to catch a scent on the wind. Which way. Where did they all go. He's not (quite) stupid enough to take off after them on his own, he knows that he's not as strong and fast as he used to be, and getting inside a building while keeping his sturdier and more dangerous shape will be hard. He needs help.

Doesn't mean he wants to be here. He's going to get the stupid short blonde and stupid tall blonde out, dammit.


IIa. Rescue

Stone stays in groundling form until the attack begins, and then he surges up into a sixty-foot-tall beast that can't see clearly and so isn't as bothered by visual hallucinations as most, that is narrowly focused on literally grabbing and throwing spirits-- or grabbing and biting spirits in half-- or stepping on spirits-- clearing a path for the smaller fighters.

He may or may not have Mary clinging to the ridges of his brows, on top of his head. With him seems the safest place for her-- even if she gets stab-happy from hallucinations or something, he's the biggest one here. She'd have a hard time stabbing something important (the blind eye is on the same side she is, after all) before he could shake her off and catch her in one hand.

The only hallucinations that bother him are the audible roars of a Kethel-- but no accompying scent, so he shakes that off-- and the scent of a Fell ruler-- which just turns Stone on the nearest green-eye, thinking it's them, and picking it up in his teeth to shake and worry like a dig. No more Fell ruler, no problem.


IIb. Return

Stone doesn't want to risk changing shape-- for one thing, he's wounded in a few places, and not only will he heal faster in this form, changing back will make those cuts, scrapes, and broken claws much worse injuries. So he finds some windows... and slams his claws through them. The scales mostly protect him from the glass, and he uses the claws to tear the last shards out.

Mary or Jason will have to call for survivors, since he can't speak in this form, but there's a point of exit. If there's no one in that room, he'll move on to the next window.

Once he's reached max load-- Rosinante and Masaomi are the ones he's looking for in specific, maybe one more-- he'll withdraw and get them settled in his arms before taking off, flying them straight home. Everyone will get set gentle down outside the inn, and Stone remains outside, still big and winged, panting and not daring to shift back yet. As soon as he does, he's going to collapse, he knows it.

Rescue

[callada]

The chaos should be completely disorienting. The spirits' cries echo through the halls and out into the woods, and the remains of furniture and people alike flying past may or may not be real; Rosinante can't tell anymore. He doesn't have the energy to dampen the sounds; doesn't have the strength to help fight back, much as he wants to. All he can do, and ultimately what saves him, is to keep one hand to the wall as he lurches forward by sheer force of stubborn willpower, mostly on his knees. Staying low makes him a harder target to hit but it's also just hard to stand. The room they've been kept in is slick with blood and his knees threaten to give out from sheer lack of energy.

It's obvious enough what the spirits have done to him, as his upper body is marked with an array of fresh cuts still seeping black blood. They had especially focused on trying to dissect the areas where ribs intersected muscle, as if trying to understand, or maybe just to make it worse. Some of the bone is now missing entirely so they could get at the flesh beneath. It's not like he has any idea why. His vision swims; he can hardly see much at all through the haze, and blindly moves toward what seems like a larger source of lantern light than most. Maybe it's lots of people at the end of a corridor - he hears some running past already. Or maybe it's one very large person. That's all right, too. The lantern means whoever it is, they're not a spirit. He'll make sense of it later. Right now, he just crawls toward the large shadow and its bright light.

Ashford | Rescuer | OTA

[patriotnow]

I. Rescue

[Ashford is not unused to difficult rescues and ambushes and knows how to stop himself from giving in to the prickle of fear at the back of one's neck when running into enemy territory. Regardless, though, now is not the time to get cocky and he knows that. While he's experienced, these types of enemies and this type of terrain is mostly foreign to him so it will a curveball his way. He keeps his hands steady on his handgun and his gaze level, ready to shoot at will.]

Have any o'them been found yet?

[He doesn't turn to see who it is who is behind him but he can tell by their movements and the fact that they have not tried to kill him that they share a similar goal.

And as he gets farther down the halls he begins to call out in hope of hearing from one of the prisoners]

Anyone ou'there?!!

II. Return

[Ashford made it out without any grave injuries. He'll be battered and bruised with a few nasty cuts on his hands and arms but nothing he's overly concerned about. The ringing in his ears though, it's dizzying and he groans as drops down to the dirt in front of the bonfire. Exhausted, disoriented.

If anyone passes near or sits close by he will give them a tired nod of acknowledgement.

He is glad that they, whoever they are, made it out in one piece.]

II

[legalcy]

Do you need medical attention?

[The ground is not a comfortable place to sleep. In the battle, anyone could have gotten hurt. Minimus himself is free of injuries save for minor dents, but they can be smoothed in time.

He still carries his giant battle hammer over his shoulder, now covered in black substance.]

[sublimebeast]

Rescue.

[Link pushes ahead of as many fellow members of the rescue party as he can with his shield lifted high on one arm.

He's not trying to steal glory, he's trying protect everyone. He's a hero...The Hero...protecting people is what he does, right? Nobody else here was hand picked by the gods themselves, they might not be as up to this as they think they are.]

HEY! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? WE'RE HERE-shit!

[He lifts his shield and hears something wooden strike against it with enough force that he scoots backwards slightly. Did something just throw a chair at him?

Not like anyone can stop the Hero with a chair.

Link sneers and sees the shadow out of the corner of his eyes, watching him with a scarlet gaze... It's not real. Something is messing with his head.

You and your sword are unstoppable. You don't need the rest of these so-called warriors slowing you down. Rush ahead. Rush ahead alone and show what you can do.

By this point he is likely not leading the charge anymore. He continues to shout for anyone who needs help but he's slowing down, trying to ignore the hallucinations and the sharp, keening wail that keeps echoing down the corridors and rattling his sensitive ears.]

Return.

[Despite his short-lived, overzealous effort to lead the charge, Link emerges relatively unharmed. There is blood caking his shield and sword, none of it his own.

Whenever anyone looks his way he'll greet them with a warm smile and a wave, eyes soft with relief.

Unfortunately, his hearing hasn't held out as well. He'll end up edging closer to anyone trying to speak with him.]

Rescue.

[arsarcanum]

[ Link's going to feel a hand grip into the back of his shirt and jerk back. His immediate reaction will probably be to try and swipe whatever it is, Sora thinks, so he lets go after that first yank and puts up his weapon in a guard - a high one. It's a guess. ]

Link! C'mon! [ Not to anywhere, just in general. He's started to notice those little pauses during their time together, chalked them up as misfires or memory issues, but he still doesn't know what they are or where they came from, and wanted to give Link some space to deal with them.

It's throwing him, here. Sora doesn't know if it matters if he knows what they are. He just needs Link to get out of this alive too. ] Get a grip!

— peter parker, rescuer ( open )

[webshoots]

—waking & training.

( peter doesn't know, strictly, how anyone was taken, but what he does know is that no-one and nothing tried to take him. he doesn't sleep much — never has — but what sleep he did have was undisturbed — or more to the point: his spider-sense didn't wake him. beacon's never been the most noisy of places, but there's a quiet stillness to the air that peter doesn't miss. can't miss.

it's become an intermittent, sad, almost normal for beacon, and peter wonders if this is what it was like the last time, in the few moments that preluded the attack by the spirits on the town whilst they — he and some of the others — slept.

and then the wild hunt arrives.

are you ready to learn? kimiko had asked beacon at large, and peter's not sure it's the question to be asking now. the time for learning has passed: javert and others had been holding lessons in beacon for months now — sure, every little helps, but he can't help but think that what they need now is time.

preparations should've been done before and once again, they've been caught flat-footed. for the first time, it seems, the spirits are less focused on attacking the town and its inhabitants, and the training that the wild hunt is insisting on implies that it's not out of the goodness of the spirits' hearts — or whatever the equivalent is.

he has questions about who kimiko is, who the wild hunt are, but they're questions that feel irrelevant whilst half the town is missing. he knows he errs on the side of paranoid, but he can't quite bring himself to wholly trust the wild hunt. it's fine, he thinks, that they're here to train and to help, but if they'd known something like this could happen? would happen? why not warn them in advance?

knowledge is power. it's a cliché but it's true: robin has it. solis has it. pluto has it. the wild hunt have it.

they don't. they're left scrambling in the dark, literally and figuratively, every time something happens, and—

it's tiring.

peter watches then, for ten, fifteen minutes, before opting to head back to the invincible. he's not surprised to bump into someone else on the way — he knows he's not the only one opting not to train. he knows he's not the only person who doesn't want to wait. he doesn't hold it against anyone that chooses to stay and train, but he can't. he's lucky, he knows — spider-sense, proportionate strength, yadda yadda.

but that doesn't mean he's going to immediately admit to wanting to sneak off in advance.

there's a breath of a pause, and he turns to gesture vaguely back in the direction of the training. )

—Taking a break? ( somewhere between wry and curious. )

—rescue.

( this is creepy.

he doesn't really want to think too much about how normal this feels in comparison to everything else. how many times has he fought bad guys in a hospital somewhere? countless. sure, most of those times were lacking in the vague horror movie feel that this has going for it, but that's neither here nor there.

it's a thought he doesn't vocalise.

his penchant for talking, for joking, tends towards serving as a distraction: for himself, for whoever's he's saving, and to distract whoever he's fighting from getting away with whatever nefarious plan they'd attempted to pull together. this, though, doesn't entirely lend itself to jokes. not now, anyway — the spirits aren't exactly prone to being distracted by inane chatter, and they haven't rescued anyone yet. the only person it'd serve to entertain and distract would be himself which, eh—. probably not the brightest idea given the fact that half the town is trapped somewhere in the medical centre.

he crawls along the ceiling, black suit blending in with the darkness whilst the light from his lantern casts shadows from his movements on the floor and against the walls; he heads towards the operating rooms, his spider-sense less of a tingling and more of a jackhammer alerting him to the chairs and tables and medical equipment peter's not sure he'd be able to name being thrown his way. some he dodges, whilst others he shoots web lines towards and slings back towards the spirits.

(god, he hopes he doesn't run out of webbing. that'd just be his luck.)

he only pauses when he sees movement out of the corner of his eyes, more human than the movement of the spirits. he stops and swings his legs away from the ceiling, forwards and down, and drops near-silently to the floor. )

—wildcard.

( if you wanna do something else, feel free to either just go for it or hmu on plurk at ruffians )

training

[legalcy]

I'm thinking.

[He's watching the humans and other organic beings practice their athletic maneuvers from a distance, getting used to their movements. Fighting with him will be different. Not all of them are trained combatants, and he hasn't fought in this form in eons. The risk of accidentally harming them with his weapon is great.]

What is your plan on infiltration?

Catra | Kidnapped | OTA

[plentystrong]

kidnapped

[ She's asleep in the armory when it happens. Arms grab her, and her eyes snap open, her entire body alert. She tries to fight, but soon her arms are pinned to her side, and she's hauled away. A glance at their green eyes calls to memory a conversation with Carmilla -- the green-eyed ones are the dangerous ones -- and she wriggles in their grasp, trying to fight.

A punch to the face renders her unconscious.

When she wakes, she springs to attention, eyes darting around her surroundings. She realizes what is happening, and a queasy feeling settles in her stomach. Quickly, she rises and starts inspecting the walls for a possible exit. ]

torture (also cw: murder, child abuse, cannibalism)

[ They take her out of the room and she still tries to fight, but it's no use against their forces, not against being strapped to a table and not against what comes after.

Suddenly, she sees Adora's face crystal-clear, her big eyes plaintive, then suddenly hard and full of hatred. Then she's She-Ra, and her blade glistens in the air as it comes for Catra, embeds itself in her, leaving her to bleed out on the ground. She can hear Adora and her new friends cheering when suddenly, there's an unimaginable pain in her chest, and suddenly she's in a dark room being sliced open.

The spirits are touching her and cutting her and patting her body with old blood, and suddenly their faces morph into masks, and all of them are Shadow Weaver, white eyes glaring at her disapprovingly, telling her she only has herself to blame for this. If she hadn't been so insolent, this could've been avoided.

Then meat is shoved down her throat. She spits. The Shadow Weavers shove harder. Her eyes wander. In the mess, she sees not fingers, but big, red pincers, like those belonging to Scorpia, and strands of shining blonde hair.

Tears escape her eyes as she choked on the meat and bites down on the hand that feeds her.

Everything goes black again. ]

downtime

[ When returned to the room with the others, Catra keeps to herself. She knows no one here, trusts no one.

She has a lot of time to think as she sits in the corner, shuddering with pain. About how naive she was. How she thought she'd seen everything bad life could throw at her, and how utterly wrong she was. How helpless she is now.

Maybe at some point, she can be heard muttering: ]

Somebody kill me.

[ But as time progresses, she gets angry. Gets furious, because she can't accept that she was born to suffer and then die and then, after death, suffer some more.

She flexes her claws and they scratch on the ground next to her. ]

I'm gonna destroy them.

[ Though the pain, she tries to drag herself to a standing position. So she can do something, anything to escape. ]

rescue

[ By the time, the rescuers arrive, Catra's pride has been worn down. She doesn't care anymore. She just wants out. So when she hears the ruckus, she jumps up and starts yelling. ]

WE'RE HERE!! COME GET US, WE'RE HERE! AND KILL THEM ALL.

DOWNTIME

[vampirella]

Is that a genuine offer?

( hi, Catra, it's just what you didn't need, wearing smudged eyeliner and enough blood to decorate an entire horror movie set. she doesn't look impressed and she's not likely to be very comforting. though, at the very least, she also doesn't look inclined to try and take Catra up on the suggestion, either. )

All that fight and the second someone pushes back, you just give up?

Duster | Kidnapped | OTA

[mindofathief]

A. Kidnapped

[Duster curses his deep sleeper tendencies. It took an exceptionally sharp talon poking his side to jolt him awake. His first through is sleep paralysis - he's heard stories of waking up feeling as if demons are keeping your body from moving. And then he's outside. And then one of the demons (no, spirits) hits him.

He's certain he's awake when he finds himself with a red spot where he was poked, a healing gash on his temple, and surrounding by just about half of Beacon.]

Are we... [He sits up slowly to get a better look at the few details in the room.] You're all seeing this, right?

B. Torture + Downtime (Hallucinations); cw gore

[Duster strikes at the approaching Green-Eyed Spirit with a fast kick, but that does not stop its partner from grabbing onto him instead. This one is a fighter, it seems to say to itself, but that can be changed. It's too late to hold onto the doorway and stay in the dim light of the holding room. It's better that what's waiting for him in the dark.

The spirits are treated to rough hits and a captive struggling out of their grip, but in the end, he is wrapped up in belts and tossed onto the exam table before being formally locked in place.

If I die, there's a chance I can come back, he tells himself. Even if they kill him, it won't be the end-

Because this island never ends. The island with all the wrong colors, laughing faces instead of animals, his friends and neighbors and father watching him with predator's eyes from the foliage. He's running, but he can't escape. He trips on a root, and he finds himself in the air. He looks up, recognizing the cliff just before he hits the ground and a sickening crack. Against his best judgement, he looks down at what's left of his leg. Seeing the bone poking through the skin suddenly awakens the pain, but this time no one is here to help. He'll die alone out here, bleeding to death and screaming for it to end.

Hours later, they let him return to reality.

Duster winces when he sees the concrete floor of his prison speed towards him, and he doesn't move after he he thrown in, not even when the spirits shut the door.]

C. Torture + Downtime (Cannibalism); cw gore, emetophobia

I'll be back soon. [He says calmly when the spirits approach his corner of the cell. It's best not to waste energy fighting all the time, especially when he hasn't eaten in who knows how long.

Two hours later, Duster steps into the cell with a hand over his stomach and his eyes wide. He slowly walks to an empty corner with a strained expression and throws up his meal. Red with flecks of white and pink. Half an eyeball bounces away.]

I'm fine. [Leave me alone, he implies. Duster avoids looking at anyone else and sits against a wall, hiding his face in his knees.]

D. Rescue

[He wakes up to the sound of glass breaking. Yelling. Is this another hallucination, hearing his friends' voices coming to save him? When he drowsily stands up to get a better look, one of the spirits scream in pain. This is real.]

Guys! [He shakes the shoulder of someone nearby.] I think we can break for it!

Downtime

[techtype]

You look great.

[About as fine as the rest of them. Duster may want to be left alone, but Prompto doesn't want to be, after spending what he's sure is several days wandering empty hallways leading to equally empty rooms. It wasn't real, but it was upsetting all the same.

Duster is nearby, therefore he's getting talked to.]

Naminé | Kidnapped | Open to All

[really_sketchy]

CW: gore, blood-mixing, blood, emotional manipulation, mental manipulation, all the stuff from her canon.

Kidnapped.

She is dreaming of castles, princesses and dark knights when she feels herself lifted from her bed. Naminés eyes flare open as her pulse begins to race. Her mouth opens to call for Hana or Sora but a force clamps over her lips and she's silenced. She struggles against the unseen force, tears welling at the corner of her eyes as she struggled.

Sora! Riku! Someone!

Her eyes close and tears curved down her cheeks. The bonfire blazes behind her eyelids and she opens her eyes just long enough to register where she is before a sharp stab of pain in her temple forces her vision to fade and her body to go limp.

She doesn't dream this time. Darkness greets her in her unconscious state and then again when she wakes. Cold stone presses between her shoulder blades and under her head. She's in a white nightgown and nothing more. Nothing to fend off the sudden chill.

Naminé pushes her palms against the floor and rises to a sitting position, bringing her knees to her chest and begins to shiver. Her feet, arms and legs are bare and the soft fabric of her sleep wear isn't enough to keep her warm. She wants to stand and to look around but she already knows that their trapped. She's seen enough prisons to know.

"No. Not again." This wasn't that fearful white room but a black one and she isn't alone. Figures rise near her and it takes a moment for Naminé to banish the memory of the heartless and recognize the shapes that move before her. The populace of Beacon.

Tortured.

Naminé screams when the spirit comes for her.

No kicking or fighting is able to stop it and soon she's being pulled along to the medical tables. She gasps and a hand is claps over her mouth, making her head spin and her brain ache for air. Her legs and wrists are fastened with thick leather straps and then tightened until only her shoulder and hips are able to move. Naminé struggles but her efforts only continue to weaken her.

"Please... don't...."

Anything else she wants to say is swallowed as the dulled rusted blade sinks into her skin. Naminé has experienced mental and emotional abuse, she's been locked away and mistreated but that pain had never left a mark. Again and again she tells herself she's stronger than it but this is different. The blade sinks into her over and over. It carves down her clavicle, across her shoulders, down her arms and legs. Her once white nightgown is spattered in blood and torn as the spirit glides the blade across her abdomen. Line after line.

Her screams die when her voice is too horse to cry out but the tears never stop, mingling with blood as the blade is replaced by fingers. The thick copper scent fills the air and Naminés struggle is renewed, only to find her efforts aggravating the scars.

The spirits are rough and as they finish with her, she isn't screaming or crying. Her face is blank, her lips parted but void of all sound. Her lips move as if to speak but she isn't able to say anything.

When they're finished, there is no struggle. Naminé is lifted and then deposited in a bloody heap on the floor. The cold tile stings her wounds but she isn't able to move.

They'll come again and again, and in time Naminé stops struggling, stops screaming. She can only feel the pain searing against her nerves. No section of her skin is left unmarred. When the darkness of sleep takes her, she welcomes it, for her nightmares are daydreams compared to the constant pain followed by each labored breath.

Downtime.

Her eyes are closed as she stirs into awareness. There is a dull ache thrumming through her body but she pushes it away.

Sora? Her slender frame shivers as she reaches out, like she'd done in that castle so long ago. Wake up sleepy head. He was asleep but she needs him awake in his dream. She needs to speak to his heart. Sora? Her body emits a soft magic for those who can sense it within their cage. Sora? Her lips part and a small smile touches her lips. Can you hear me? I don't... have much time.

Naminé wakes with a sudden start, gasping as the movement shakes her body with pain. She spoke to Sora, for however briefly, but he'll find them.

Her eyes open and she looks at those around her. Not everyone is here and they seem to be at varying states of awareness. Naminé pushes herself up and tries her best not to winch at the pain. Everything hurts but that doesn't mean she can't help those here. Even if it's just a little bit, she wants to help.

Even if she doesn't look like she's in any shape to help anyone.

"Please." She whispers, her voice raw and uncomfortable. "I can help you. It'll be okay. Others are coming to save us." Through all the pain, all the blood, Naminé smiles.

"You aren't alone."

Escape.

Naminés slender form is splayed across an operating table when the full force of the attack reaches her. Scarlet blood drips from her lips while maroon splashes of dried blood is caked against her skin. Some cuts look fresh and others days old, tinged green and purple with infection. Her white dress isn't white anymore but black and red. Her once pristine blonde hair is matted with blood and dirt.

The echoes of fighting and shouts fill her ears but she can't move. Her limbs are strapped to the table. The spirit over top of her has left but there is no energy left within her to struggle. She tugs at her bids but her arms barely move.

Her lips part and she turns her head to cough up blood. She hopes its her own but there is no way of telling.

Slowly, her eyes open and at first it's too blurry to see.

"W-who?" Her throat burns when she speaks and her voice barely rises above a whisper.

FUCK IT, ESCAPE

[fjorgedinfire]

Fjord is frankly in no fit state to be sticking around to help people; not with how many times he's been drowned, not with how there's an unpleasant sloshing in his lungs that sets off a coughing fit every few metres.

But he'll be fucking damned if he doesn't turn this place over and see everyone he can out. So when he finds an open door, knowing it's one of the rooms they've been forced into, of course he's going to check.

And he immediately hates what he sees.

"Shit.." Naminé will hear a hoarse voice, so much so it's almost unintelligible, and a hacking cough that sounds like a lung being forcibly evicted; and then a splash of liquid impacting the floor. "Hey-- are y'all alright?"

And a hand touches her throat; cold fingers on the side of her neck, but the gentlest of brushes, trying to find a pulse.

Prompto Argentum | Kidnapped | OTA

[techtype]

Kidnapped

[Prompto is a very light sleeper. Heavier than he was back home, but he's still woken up by an intrusion near his bed. It doesn't really help either way, because he's grabbed and hauled off before he can even ask who's there.

He wakes up again--odd, because he doesn't think he could fall back asleep until he knew whether he was dealing with friend or foe, but there he did. Or--nope, moving his head to look around suddenly hurts, so he probably was knocked out rather than fell back asleep. He's not back at the cabin in his blanket nest, but in a large room with other people--Beacon residents, he realizes--and is suddenly very self-conscious of the decision to wear only a pair of sleep pants to bed.]

Anyone know where we are?


Torture+ Hallucinations (cw: gore, mention of past torture)

[It's not the first time he's ever been dragged somewhere and strapped to a table. The device in Zegnautus Keep wasn't really a table--he didn't know if it moved to become one and didn't care to know--but the feeling's definitely the same, and he's doing everything he possibly can to make things harder on the two spirits accompanying him: attempting to scramble off the table as soon as he's let go for a second, moving around, yelling.

It ultimately doesn't work, because suddenly there's a spirit with bright green eyes in front of him and he's in a very familiar nightmare.

He's dreamed about the endless corridors, the never-ending maze of hallways and rooms that seem to change every time he revisits them, that warp and twist around him. This time, though, he steps into empty rooms sometimes, rooms with absolutely nothing in them that have no place in an area meant for research because even the doors disappear as soon as he steps inside. It's just dream, but it lasts so much longer, and no matter how much he tells himself to wake up, he can't.

But sometimes, he does. And then the pain hits him. There he is on the table, and there are spirits with scalpels. They're spirits and then they're not spirits; suddenly they have his friends' faces and that makes each cut hurt that much more. He barely even notices when the cutting stops and a new kind of pain moves in to replace it when a spirit with a girl's face starts smearing something into the wounds, followed by unconsciousness.]


Downtime

[He's been there for too long. He can't keep track of what time it is at all when he's constantly alternating between wandering an empty nightmare world for hours at a time and waking up to find himself standing up, being roughly and painfully pulled in an apparently random direction. Did he even sleep? He's not sure.

Half of the blood covering him isn't even his and that's more than a little anxiety-inducing. Once he's off the operating table, so to speak, he's hesitantly dabbing at spots on his arms to try to mop up some of the blood. A sharp stab of pain shoots through him each time, accompanied by a small sob.]

D-don't think they sh-should be allowed to p-practice medicine anymore. Th-think so?

[It's a joke, but he can't quite muster a light enough tone, though he manages a small smile at whoever's nearest.]


Wildcard

[Have you come to rescue him? Or maybe you have a different idea for one of the above prompts. Hit me, I'm flexible.]

downtime

[evulsed]

[ Vanitas, normally, relishes in this kind of thing. The Darkness this creates is huge, deep. It rolls off the people here like a dense fog, cloying and thick— and Vanitas can't help himself taking it in. He is Darkness, all this negativity is what makes up his heart. For all intents and purposes, his power should be greater now than it ever has been in this place.

But it isn't that simple. The agony weighs on him like a wet blanket, and Vanitas is exhausted. From the way they lay into his body, from the way they destroy his Unversed like they're nothing at all. An endless feedback loop of his own anguish on top of everyone else's.

Prompto isn't the only person crying. Vanitas can hear someone else sobbing, he can hear another person retching. His yellow eyes are lamplike in the dark as he watches Prompto dab at his wounds. ]

Is this what you call medicine?

[ Prompto might have been joking, but Vanitas is serious. ]

Gregor Allaine | Closed to Rosinante

[nekrosmanteia]

Gregor knew about the spirits, the ones further out, as more of a general threat. It's not like he took any precautions or anything. He isn't used to being the sort of person that anyone would want to mess with; for most, it's very not worth it. Apparently, the green-eyed spirits didn't get that message.

Either they're very lucky or they know more than they let on, restraining his hands before anything else, before he's even really awake. He can't touch any of them, not directly, and he can't reach the knife in his pocket. The best he can do is struggle, but the spirits are stronger, and they don't quite work like people. Things that would make a human attacker flinch, kicking at knees and headbutting faces, don't affect them at all. It isn't long before he just wears himself out, doing most of the work for them.

After that, it's all a blur. Until the experiments start, at least.

He fights them like a wild animal, for all the good it does. Fighting gives him something to concentrate on, looking for openings, trying to find something that actually hurts them. The spirits certainly seem to know how to hurt him though and for once he's lucky that he doesn't feel it as much as he should. He's had worse, he tells himself, and he doesn't think he's wrong. But that doesn't exactly make this pleasant, and it only goes downhill from there.

He can take the physical torture, and even the weird feeding thing is bearable, (if gross,) but the hallucinations are another beast entirely. He's seen illusions before, experienced things that weren't real, but these aren't like that. While they're happening, they are real, and they linger long after the fact. Gregor isn't afraid of very many things, not anymore. Once pain and death are firmly established as temporary, there's not much to fear, not for himself. But for the most part, these visions aren't about him.

Over and over he watches the few people he's managed to hold onto slip from his grasp. Either hurt and dying, beyond his power to fix, or at last deciding that he's too much of a monster to want to be around. Both of which are awful, of course, but not nearly as bad as the times where he's the one killing them. Not because he's lost control, but because, for one reason or another, he has to. In the visions, Joss follows in his father's bloody footsteps, or Gemma returns, widening the scope of her vengeance, forcing his hand. In his lucid moments, Gregor knows he wouldn't be able to make those decisions so quickly and brutally. At least, he thinks he does. But trapped in the hallucinations, it always feels like the right thing to do.

When the spirits are done with him for the day (or he hopes so, anyway,) he's content to lean against the rough concrete wall, desperately craving a smoke. But doing nothing never sits well with him for long, so eventually he starts doing what he always does, which is talking to whoever is nearby.

"So how long do you think it'll take for them to get bored with this?" He inspects several deep wounds in his forearm, hoping distantly that the resulting scars won't ruin the ones he already has. He's gotten used to those.

"They're not even asking us any questions." His tone isn't really disinterested, but it's also far from fearful. "It's almost disappointing."

[callada]

Rosinante rests slumped against the wall with eyes closed. Severe, extensive injury is nothing new to him, unfortunately, although this particular sort of torture is novel. His life has been marked in milestones of physical and mental trauma and Beacon has proven no different, though it's certainly doing its best to vie for new records for damage. Retaliation and escape seem less and less like real possibilities as the hours draw on. He hasn't given up entirely, but he's exhausted and finds it hard to do much more than sit and wait and try to ration his strength.

"Whatever they want, it's not something they think we can tell them," he grunts. "Either that or they're just into hands-on learning."

Pretty bleak for humor, if that's what that was supposed to be.