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Realistic or Modern BORROWED TIME

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ARC 1






The hand falls to the floor with a wet thump. Bladed digits spasm and grasp for their owner, pulling at the sky. A black miasma sprays with a high-pitched spritz from the relinquished limb and the world around The Whisperer is painted in her ink. The unlighted ichor adheres to the face of the cavern and the surrounding rock inhales - feeding off of its master's unliving essence. Bone clatters, jaws lash and her unliving children create a swarm around her, weeping for their sweet sister. The nearest carcass collapses to its knees and its body hunches forward in prayer. The corpse disconnects its hand with a snap and holds it in its other. It extends the disconnected bone forward - an offering to The Whisperer. The Whisperer takes the hand and stabs the aged bone into their fresh stub. The fingers wiggle tentatively as the connection solidifies.

...

"You killed my son you HARLOT!!!" the father’s fingers held the blade firmly, crimson sullying the stainless habit she wore. He twisted it into her chest, fabric wrapping around the dull blade. Sister Agne's body trembled, fingers dripping red from the split flesh where she tried to stop the knife's path. Her mouth was agape and her lips shook as she tried to take in air. The blade dislodges with a wet pop while sinew forms a crimson connection to the blade from her wound before snaping. Sister Agnes falls to her knees with a hand held firmly against her injury. "... only sought to ... fulfill your r-request," she pleaded through quivering breaths.

"I'm going to end you and bury this place with you."


...

The Whisperer exists as an echo of a memory, a reverberation across fate's fragile threads; an anomaly. Its lanced arm raises, as bone wraps across the wispy form. It forms an armor of ribs, cartilage, and marrow that protects her frame - a shuck of dread. Her body sinks into the earth as if it were liquid. Ripples of dirt scatter as its form lowers into the ground - tucked away from sight.

...

“Sister Agnes. Do you understand why we do as we must?” Father Lynch asked, voice rich and baritone. His eyes peered into the sisters with a blank stare, they were sightless eyes, pale and watery. The irises were almost milky, giving an impression of vast emptiness. When he spoke his gaze remained fixed.

It is our duty to them, to be rid of the demons that have taken hold. The harm we inflict is a small price to pay for the salvation of their eternal soul. We are instruments of God's will, and sometimes His will demands hard sacrifices."

He took a step closer. "Remember, Agnes, the Devil is cunning. He preys on the weak, the vulnerable. We cannot afford to show mercy to his minions."


...

The walls are closing in. Skeletal faces leer at the women as they pass while grasping, and writhing arms reach out to the pair. Nestled deep within the hollow empty eyesockets are the regrets and dreams of countless young lives. They yearn for the opportunity to steal away from their muddied graves and masquerade in the blessed flesh of Fate's Agents. An opalescent clone at Naomi's flank is grasped at the ankle, pulled back, and swarmed. A collection of corpses beat against the glittering carapace of her doppelganger. One saddles the clone’s stomach and raises both fists into the air, before bringing them down hard onto her mannequin face. Gemstone shatters into myriad pieces and the sound reverberates at their backs.

The Whisperer's formless body trails them, sifting through dirt like a shark wading through water. It smells the alluring scent of blood and its lance hunger for the taste. The Knight at Alma’s back is stronger than it, but not faster. It springs ahead in front of the pair, bursting forth from the floor beneath their feet. Its lance is primed and ready and its expressionless face is locked forward in a contortion of hatred. It moved like a blur, the blade a shining arc too swift to follow. One moment it was at their side, and the next it had sliced through the air faster than sight allowed. It carves through Naomi’s ankle as if it were never there.

A deluge of blood gushes out of the ceded appendage as the momentum of her prior dash takes the pink-haired girl skidding forward. The Whisperer does not turn back as the wounded girl is flung behind them. It prepares another swipe, bladed arm pointed to the ceiling. The Whisperer’s head turns to now focus on the frail girl ahead.


Klown Klown Gh0stOcean Gh0stOcean




WORLD WITHOUT EYES
 
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Pilgrim59 Pilgrim59 AURS AURS Kovacs Kovacs Klown Klown Gh0stOcean Gh0stOcean

Her hand was cool to the touch, compared to the rising heat in Nick’s. She gave his hand a light squeeze, reminding him that he existed outside of his head, and then turned her gaze towards Angie.

“Same as always.”

Qing-Yi wrapped up her turkey sliders as tightly as possible, stuffed it down her shirt, then pulled her pants up too, securing the food best she could. The cove was a cold place. Warm food would be nice, wouldn’t it?



The eight-foot tall aluminum ladder inside the janitorial closet within the employee’s corridor of Wally’s Secret Cove weighed eighteen pounds.

For reference, a baseball bat weighed around three pounds, while a sledgehammer meant for construction and renovation reached ten pounds. One could argue that both a bat and a hammer were much more wieldy and top-heavy than a ladder and thus better tools for the purposes of bludgeoning something, but that was only because the principles of leverage made it so much more difficult to use a ladder as a hammer.

Qing-Yi need not abide by such principles.

whump-Whump-WHUMP!

A blur of silver sang through the cove, a delayed refrain to Naomi’s terrific scream. Folded onto itself and blessed by an Agent’s Gift, the Featherlite 8ft Aluminum Step Ladder churned through the undead mass like a ladder through skeletons, scattering phantasmal bone as chaff in darkness. It boomeranged in its trajectory, arcing towards the Aberration that commanded the horde.

“Nick, take care of Naomi for me?”

Her entrance was silent, for the air did not shift in her presence.

Her countenance remained undisturbed, her fingers curling around the anti-shock grip of a Milwaukee 22 oz. Milled Face Framing Hammer.

Qing-Yi floated beside Alma, not a single strand of hair out of place, as she pulled turkey sliders out from her collar like a magician and offered them. Still warm, though the paper packaging was a bit damp from the built-up steam.

“Alma, could you let Angie and Anna know where we are?” A pause, a quirk of her lips. “That’s a lot of A-names. Funny.” The quirk of her lips turned into a proper, meaningless smile. “A-Rank Aberration too. Amusing!”

The only hour that mattered was her last one.

“Big C, work with me.”
 
POSTED ON AURS AURS BEHALF

























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Angela pops her bubblegum between her tongue and teeth when she spots her intuition's tell at the Cove's maw.

Acid yellow caution tape drapes the entrance like yellowing on an animal's teeth, ironic against pigeon droppings; melting with chlorine and heat wave, grease-coagulated food wrappers, and, if she squinted, a starkly innovative McGuffin between a condom and a crooked, bloody syringe in the corner. It's plastic tubing crushed by boot dentings.

Hunkered down to the ever-wet cobblestone, a man sat in a ceremonial red vending apron, like a sweltering animal, fat and unaware of the spit-soaked fangs above it.

He almost looked sorry.

Almost, because the easy mellow tiding his frame had him like a limping palm, rather than the ramrod despair that backbreaking work molded him into. That told the world to Angie.

One. Not his first time getting high in the corners of the park. He knew where no one bothered to look, he probably knew the ins and outs of it, too—but he wouldn't be much help to them.

Two. He was a stoner, had to be. The inchoate dark locks, made to shine with perspiration that seeped through his pores, speckling the creases of his overworked eye sockets, barely forcing themselves open as the red dragon burns his insides, starting from the fermented look in his eyes, redness around the nose, dry-skinned lips and, finally, tremors in the pointer finger.

He was used to it. He was far into it. Best of all, he was so fucking high he might be able to climb the peak of his rent in one piece.

Only a bigger fix would top that.

There were things Angela would never do with this insight. They were her codex of bottom lines, drawn around a hill of moral piety which eventually took her life. She died on that hill, literally, figuratively, bafflingly–it was after all, a ‘foolproof way of life.’

She checks her phone, passes over a few buttons. Brows furrowed. Lips knitted in concentration. The isolated act was strange, but not unfounded—if she were paying attention to the device at all.

With the same, sleek, worn familiarity she maneuvered the phone with, she picked the vendor apart from muscle memory as she hit 「𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮」.

“They let you smoke here?” she quipped. Scintillating sarcasm as she unclipped her collar to breathe better. Laughter bubbled up like a barren dam drilled for water. Fleeting, and yet, velveteen, wonderful–the finest one could ever drink down. The soothing type, distilled into liquor you could share your life story over in a matter of seconds and feel good about it.

“Don't worry. I, we, don't care. Sorry if you're on break.” the apology rides along screams wrung out from the more respectable attractions.

She takes a glimpse at the park again, how off-site the Cove seems from the rest of the compound, and Angela swears, for a moment, a second, a yawning eternity, those screams dragged themselves as a collective, mangled mess from the waters below.

A drumburst of nerves and vices, worst-case scenarios converged with pained shrieking and the insidious thrill that nips at her heel. It seeps past veins, carotids, sinew, and finally the flaming, unknowable core that wills Ha Neul to continue a fast expiring existence on this Earth.

“What's it take for me and my friends to get down there?” unhurried, rolling with the punches, Angie wrung her wrists. Her gaze ran him from top to bottom and her smile was quick. Polite, nothing more.

They probably looked like a pair of cosplay fanatics; Anna in full beau monde get up—she might as well be the camera girl. The excuse wrote itself where any other lie would've crippled under the skepticism of a disillusioned minimum wage worker.


GORDON, THE HOTDOG VENDOR

His eyes turned up at the intrusion of her cutting voice. Guilt danced along his glossy red eyes, the potent tang of his misdeed still lingering within the fabric of his threads. The spontaneity of her intrusion caused the joint to tussle from his grasp. He deftly caught it with his opposite arm and the thrill of it brought him out of the moment. When his eyes finally found her, a flirtatious glimmer was penned to his face, eyes narrowed with rapturous hunger. The words found his ears, but there was no indication that he was listening.

“I dunno. What will it take for me to get down there, the boy returned dully. The dope cast a haze over his inhibition, the wall between thought and spoken word brought to ruin. At least he would cast blame on the drug when he sobered. A laugh croaked out of his throat somewhere in between a flurry of coughs.

Angie hums, cocking her head with a derisive glance. Licking her lips, she gets closer to his level. “I like blonds, redheads and girls with big doe eyes.” Playing a part that's none-too-desperate, but just about human, was a seasoned give-and-take. She learned the theoretics in the womb, but it wasn't until her first apartment that she quickly caught on that it didn't stop at humoring one person with a response.

Remnants of fume pumped out of his mouth, rotten with odor. “It’s just a joke babe, lighten up. I wouldn’t go down there - I hear shit, crazy shit. The kind of shit being screamed in Wally’s Thrill Zone. But I know for a fact there ain’t no one down there; can’t be,” he warned, taking another hit from the ever-dwindling blunt.

“Twenty bucks and I won't squeak.”

Angie controls a space when it gets to her. That steady booming breaking point looming in the horizon of mass probability. A maestro, virtuosity in her fingers, it radiates a different kind of energy, a pinprick drop in temperature as she sucks all light into something fitting the mood of her soul.

“I'll do you one better—

They hold their audience in suspense until they asphyxiate, the way she stifles the man with words, determined, no, forcibly prophetic.

“We're going down there. We'll walk right past, and you'll pretend you never saw us and finish up your lunch break in peace.”

“And in exchange… something extra.”
She would've pegged him, easily, as someone who'd do it for free. The apron they gave him wasn't even washed, by the looks of it. Traces of magnesium, sulfate, iron—blood, curdled on the pockets in a neat little splatter; something her past life lent itself into seamlessly.

“I wouldn’t take a foot in if I were you. I don’t know if y’all are just playin’ ghostbuster or some sick fucks who wants to fraternize where a child died, but it’s a bad idea,” he pauses, red-stained eyes glancing off into somewhere distance.

”Must’ve only been a few days now before I tried going further in,” his voice trails off in recollection and his pupils widen. “I don’t know if it’s the weed, but I kid you not, I saw some kind of monster. Big fella, the crazy part is that he ain’t got no eyes,” he laughs darkly, almost in disbelief at what he was saying. But there was something there, a tell, hidden in the quivering of his lips - that his memory brook no doubt.

Angela sighed, nodding along in a conjured image of a modern-day St. Clare. How could she miss the break in his story, the long-winded pause that settles like sediment over a Sub-Saharan reality? Most humans shouldn't have been aware of the ABERRANTS beyond a tingling itch, a sticky breath creeping up their neck at 3 AM.

This one had the trademark futility that had seen what God was capable of; that Hollywood often melodramatized in trumped up perversions.

THE EYELESS. Nyctiel, for once, made perfect sense. You should worry.

Either that or Angie was steadily climbing the ranks in this guessing-game-gamble profession, and their [eldritch] manager might invite her out sudoku and beer next time.

“Boss told me I was crazy, but others have seen him around the park too. The difference between them and me is that I’m still here,” he spoke with a bite of genuine confidence.

“I suppose you're lucky.” Truthfully she wanted to ask how he managed to make it out in one piece, but Angie settled on letting him prattle. She'd glean the information from here. He didn't need to know the depth of their interest—he didn't need more ammo than what she was willing to give him, and Angela was a scrooge of a mistress when it came down to it.

“Get the blood out of your apron, before some kid points it out and you lose the job. Then buy yourself something nice. Something harder, whatever you like.”

“Don't. Look for us. Don't bother us.”
Punctuated by the firmness of her tone she handed him a crisp-looking set of benjamins. $500 bucks to be exact.

“Forget us. Or this entire interaction goes to the boss with the biggest stick up his ass because company stocks are tanking and every journalist that already hates this dump. Clear?”

“Clear as day, capitán. It’s a deal. If you see him, just stay away from the light,” he warned, his blunt now reduced to a short stub. With a flick of the wrist, he tossed it at his feet and smashed it into the ground. He extends a hand, fingers unsubtly brushing against hers as he relinquishes the bill from her grasp.

Makes the trade with an impassive stare, given to irritation by the way it rushed over her pale cheeks and lips, the icy filament of her eyes; like an animalistic film casted over them; intrigued and so beautifully alienated—like the roiling muscles of a hawk's wing span, retracting for a dive after its meal.

Cannabis wasn't considered a hard drug, nor was it the type she grew up around, but it was a leading gateway–a dissonance from the sprawling dystopia they all lumbered into. Maybe it wasn't the best choice to feed this man's addiction, but.

That is to say you–you don't care, do you? Gods give life and they take it away around the revolver door of free will. You'll dissect a man like a corpse on some pure steel table, the tools of your holy trade repurposed to a higher calling — but you don't care, as long as its no one you know nailed unto the wood.

Angela bites down a heavy wad of judgment as she hammers another nail in. Flashing the camera in his face, she says point blank, “Good. Now smile. You know, posterity.”

No, she'd never do this no matter how great it'd work out for her. But Ha Neul's belief is less an ironwrought with an entire spare life on the table. It's more a declarative plea, look at me, I'm a good person, please don't think less of me! Do you remember that? Does it ring a bell to you? on crumpled paper, signed at the highest authority of legislation, under a government that crumbles by the hour like every other Empire before her.

It's unbelievably thrilling, to see what she would do with a clean slate. The thrill is a slew of heavy armored chemicals, cortisol, dopamine, adrenaline slushing together. Only a supreme being, more circumvent than the Seraphim, could have designed this, what was it again, what did you call it? The revolving door of free will? watching every action, choice and thought with a cold hungry—insatiable, pleading, but ultimately callous no matter how much depravity it consumes from its throne room.

Angela slips past the caution tape, careful to follow the worn grooves of previous entries.

“We’re already behind schedule,” She extends her hand to Anna, urging her in a hushed voice against the echo chamber of the nearby catacombs.

Minutes into the metallic twang of pool water, asphalt and decay, Angela appreciates the very dim, erratic lighting overhead. For now they could avoid attracting attention to themselves, though the strange light of The Eyeless remained in the back of her mind.












































































































































































































































































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♡coded by uxie♡
 
Fifth
The coaster teetered over the edge of the drop, and darkness swept over the ride. Something washed over Fifth, too. A putrid smell, like rotten eggs mixed with raw sewage.

Indistinguishable blurs through the darkness traced downwards from above. Like static in the dark creeping from the edge of their vision. A noise sounded off through the whooshing air of the falling coaster, a kick near the front barely audible over the ride.

Mell felt a sudden tug on the rope before it jerked out of his hand entirely.

The coaster ceased its descent, leveled out, and re-entered the light. Next to Ilia, Fifth’s seat was vacant.

–-0-0-0—​

Ice cold hands clamped fifth’s mouth shut and cut off any scream he’d tried to form in his throat. The sounds of the coaster trundling away grew distant as he was hauled upwards. A dozen or more clammy, wrinkly hands had a hold of him. They were restless, constantly squirming and tugging at him with their digits, making for the most uncomfortable frisking he’d ever experienced. They twisted and turned him like a new toy, and every time he tried to lash out with a kick or punch another pair of hands came from nowhere and tightened their hold.

Through the darkness, he could only make out a twisting pale-gray blur. Any details or general idea of whatever the fuck it was was lost in the dark. All he could tell was that it was big, and didn’t stick to a single shape for long. As they ascended, its shape contorted and stretched, shrunk and deformed at whim to quickly maneuver whatever blocked its path. It was almost completely silent-Almost, because when it pulled him close he could hear a chorus of faint raspy breaths.

He was screaming, very loudly, but the three pairs of hands with a vice grip over his mouth reduced his volume to a whisper. Fifth liked to think of himself as level-headed in intense situations, but this was the sort of situation where he couldn’t do anything but wig the fuck out. He couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t make a peep, and more pairs of hands kept emerging from the depths of the creature to grab hold of him. He was thrashing as much as he could but he couldn’t see a damn thing. He kicked air as often as he kicked a limb, and whenever he did the creature only became more pissed off.

The rope didn’t help much either, its only discernible use being to strangle the Ruskie if Fifth made it out of this alive. And Fifth was an optimist, so he put his odds up as ‘Good fucking luck’.

Finally, the thing (Or things, he wasn’t sure) made it to the top and came to rest on a catwalk overlooking the ride. There were two dim fluorescent lamps over each end of the catwalk that provided minimal lighting for the creature, but even that didn’t help much. It just looked like a formless blob of gray.

It seemed to slow down, but Fifth didn’t have that luxury. His bound hands, with what little wiggle room they had with so many hands pinning his arms, frisked his back pocket. Quickly, they came out with a stolen swiss army knife from the hotel gift shop. He tried to flick it open and saw at the rope, but the hands holding him suddenly began tugging violently. He dropped the knife into the mass of gray below him as the creature seemingly tried to pull him apart. Well and thoroughly fucked, his panicked state quickly devolved to squirming. He kicked out and flailed every which way, and by some miracle his back pressed against the dropped knife by accident and dug it into whatever it was that was below him.

The knife sank into the gray mass, hit something softer than the rest, and popped it. The creature screamed. Maybe out of pain, maybe out of anger, Fifth couldn’t tell. Either way, the end result was him becoming airborne. He only had enough time to process the fact he was free before he slammed through the ajar door at the end of the catwalk.

He hit it headfirst, and his vision felt like googly eyes bouncing around his skull. That wasn’t what he was focused on though, because Fifth finally got a good look at touchy-feely.

A big, ugly motherfucker built entirely of rotting and bloated flesh. Pale grey, wrinkly and peeling skin grafted together with hollow faces and festering limbs. Legs and arms, faces and orifices sprouted out in every direction and constantly shifted as the mass formed into different shapes to propel itself forward. One arm reached towards one of the faces, grabbed his swiss army knife embedded in one of its many milky white eyes, and yanked it out.

Putrid innards trailed along the ground from where they fell out of openings in the mass as the thing rapidly gained ground towards Fifth. It was startlingly quick for its size and Fifth didn’t waste any time screaming. His mind ran off the simple instinct of ‘Nuh Uh’ and threw himself to his feet and down the maintenance hallway he’d landed in.

The migraine almost keeled him over, but the sound of the thing impacting the doorway forced him forwards. It squelched, and then its body contorted to allow itself through, quickly filling the hallway behind him. Hands and legs kicked out at the floor, walls, and ceiling to roll and push it down the hall faster than Fifth could run. The only advantage he had was his headstart, and that was dwindling fast.

There was no thought process to his actions, only incoherent screaming. Instinct and what little self-preservation he had took the reigns, flinging him through the nearest open doorway before he frantically tried to close and lock it with both hands tied behind his back. The sound of the creature neared very quickly as Fifth fumbled with the door, and in that moment he felt an indescribable rage wash over him-Not at the beast, but at that dirty fucking slav.

He couldn’t see his handiwork with his back to the door, but he finally felt the lock on the door twist. And not a moment too soon, as the thing slammed into the door just as the lock clicked. The knob twisted and turned and the pounding threatened to knock the door off its hinges, but it held long enough to give Fifth some breathing room.

There was a fire extinguisher held in a glass case above some cardboard boxes across the room. Smashing the glass with his elbow, he began sawing the rope binding his wrists on the broken glass, only cutting himself three times.

The rope finally snapped in two, and his odds of survival raised to “Meh”. There was another door at the end of the room and Fifth tried fleeing through it, only to realize it was locked. He tried brute forcing it, but only got a bruised shoulder for the trouble. He ran back for the fire extinguisher and tried to use it as a battering ram to no avail. The other door was shaking loose from its hinges and Fifth didn’t have much time, but he finally gave notice to the materials in the room with him.

Wrenches, hammers, tool boxes, but most importantly, WD40. Distantly, Fifth remembered that WD40 was flammable, and as fortune would have it, he had a cheap plastic lighter he’d pilfered from the park’s lost and found. His master plan came to him like car keys to a drunk driver-Descending from the heavens themself and gifting him a holy mission.

The hinges came loose just as Fifth flicked his lighter alight. Even through the pant-shitting terror of being confined in the same room as the thing, he felt a sudden surge of startling, unfounded bravery.

Cockiness, too, because he sang just as the WD40 met the open flame.

“Burn baby burn~ Burn burn ba-AH-AHH-AHHH!” and immediately turned to screaming, because Fifth had forgotten just how flammable WD40 was and the entire can exploded in a burst of flames right in his hands the moment it touched the lighter. Sensation suddenly became a massive clusterfuck of burning nerves, screaming, and Disco Inferno still playing in his head. His entire upper body was on fire, as was his hair, and basic motor function left him as he stopped, dropped, and rolled.

The only consolation was that the creature had similarly been set alight by the explosion and reared back out of the room with a screech to put itself out. Fifth wasn’t having much luck doing the same, and quickly began to take off his blazing jacket and throw it away. As Fifth frantically tried to pat down his still smoldering hair, his burning jacket landed on the pile of cardboard boxes lining the room. It set the cardboard alight, then the packing peanuts inside them alight, and then it set the many, many cans of WD40 held within on fire.

The creature, freshly extinguished, squeezed back into the room for round two just as the fiery pits of hell opened to swallow them both whole. Fifth’s skin was only put through a few seconds of agony before the chemical foam fire extinguisher he left near the other door was pushed to its limit by the heat and exploded in a spray of foam that killed half the inferno inside the room and blew the door off its lock.

Covered in foam and body a world of pain, Fifth somehow climbed to his feet. He couldn’t see the creature through the spots in his eyes or the flames, but he could hear it screaming. He hadn’t killed it, and he hadn’t even hurt it all that much, but he did make it very angry.

He had very little time before the creature came back for him, so he pushed his battered body forward and stumbled out the other door. He barely made it through before the thing came back through the fire, furious and covered in burns. He didn’t even have time to move before it barreled into him and sent him tumbling over a safety railing.

Midair, he realized he was now falling a good fifteen feet directly onto the coaster tracks. Fifth had just enough time to drop all pretenses of masculine pride and scream his head off before he impacted the rails. The side of his head slammed into the rail first and everything went black.

He was unconscious for three or five seconds before he rebooted and felt the pain in his skull. He’s slipped off the track and onto the ground below and he couldn’t see anything through the darkness and his own blurred vision. His ears were ringing and it felt like his brain was bouncing around his skull like a DVD screensaver, and whenever it hit the corner he experienced one, singular thought. Without thinking he traced one bruised, blistered hand over his other, feeling for his bracelet. Still intact, miraculously, and just touching it filled him with a sort of warmth unrelated to his still burning hair. Acrid black smoke poured from the maintenance rooms above him, and embers drifted downwards, mixing with the stars in his vision like a lightshow.

He could barely breathe-must’ve landed hard on his back-and something in his right leg felt out of place-that, or broken. He could feel blood seeping out the side of his head, part of his skin and scalp crimson and peeled loose. The blood was already seeping down his head and to his chin, and all he could hear from his right side was blood running like a stream. Fifth wasn’t a doctor, but he was fairly certain that kills people.

The pain hadn’t set in yet, shock was doing him a favor at the moment. It took him a moment to remember what was happening before the memories came back to him like a cancer diagnosis.

Dead, Fifth thought blearily, before the screensaver hit the corner again, I’m dead.

But no. He was still kicking, somehow, and above him Fifth could barely see with his spotty vision, but the shape of the creature was descending on him startlingly quick. His body protested, begged him to give it a rest, but he managed to roll his body under the tracks and to the other side just before the creature fell right on top of him. It tried squeezing under the tracks to grab him, but realized it was too big and lifted its rear to climb over the track to grab him at the other end.

As the creature made its way to the other side, a creaking of the tracks made by Fifth’s movements as he tried to hide better alerted it to the weakness of the wood. There was no discernable face on the beast, but something about the way it vibrated made it seem as though it were smiling, maybe even smug. It knew it had cornered its prey. The creature leapt into the air and prepared to crash directly on Fifth, crushing it under its weight and breaking apart the wood and recapturing its prey. That was what the creature wanted. But Mell and his portals had other plans.

A portal opened up of to the side where the ride had another sharp drop and then another one opened up directly over the rails Fifth was under. The creature, unable to stop its decent, fell right through the portal and was warped to the other side of the track where it would begin its fall. When the portal disappeared, Fifth noticed Mell, panting and dusty and covered in scrapes standing a couple feet away with his signature grin. “Finally…caught you…” he managed to sputter out through gasps. Mell’s legs were buckling, likely from exhaustion. There was a long line of portals behind him that he had left for Ilia and Elyn to follow. He hoped that they’d be getting here soon, after all, he had made sure to portal them off the ride before coming after Fifth.

“Cavalry’s on its way. Can you stand?”

Fifth threw up on Mell's feet. That would be a no.

Tags: Zedalith Zedalith lyn. lyn.
Written with: Wyll Wyll
 
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Mellor.jpg

The Caretaker

Mellor
Akir

Mell was on edge. It felt as though all his nerves were being balanced on a razor's edge and the slightest thing would cause them to snap. However, for Mell, this was not a bad thing. After all, he had been in a situation not unlike this several times in the past. It was in these situations, times like these - moments where it seems like the whole world was holding its breath waiting for the chaos to start - that his refleces are the sharpest. It in in these moments where he shines.

Not necessarily because he is some cat-like-reflex monster or he is particularly dexterous. Rather, he draws strength from those around him. He is moved forward by his sense of duty, his desire to protect those around him. Therefore, the more trouble they are in, the stronger he has to be, and so the stronger he is. Somehow he'd learnt to push his body to be what his teammates needed, consequences be damned. His body could complain later.

He had prepared for absolutely everything. One aberration, several aberrations, S-Tier, D-Tier, random guy trying to play a prank. He had a plan for everything and had ensured that he would be able to protect his team no matter what happened. Then...the unexpected happened. The one thing he hadn't prepared for - the most trivial thing. His phone buzzed. It caught him so severely off guard that for a good few seconds, he thought it was an aberration and was ready to unleash hell...on his phone. He briefly wondered who had texted him - there weren't that many people that he was close enough with to give his number.

In that moment, something happened. Something beyond the physical. There was a sound, one too faint for his ear to fully register and one that he wasn't even sure was real, but it sent a shot of lightning down his spine - a fear; a desperation; a duty. He couldn't prove it, he couldn't justify it, but Naomi was in danger. In that moment, he was snared by the enough indecisiveness to cause him to hesitate and weaken his grip on the rope ever so slightly.


No, Mellor. Trust in those that are with her. Trust in Naomi herself. You don't even know where she is or how to get to her. Stay where you're needed, stay here.

It didn't take long. Half a second of hesitation, maybe. He knew it wasn't a full second. He thought, surely, he should be allowed at least the freedom to waver for half a second. But the aberration shared no such mercy. In that half a second that he lost his concentration, he felt the rope slip. He knew immediately what it meant. It meant danger. It meant aberration. It meant fix up.

He instinctively reached for the rope and managed to grab the very tail end of it. The rope immediately yanked him out of the cart, pretending as if the seat belt wasn't even there. However, the tiny amount of resistance gave him just enough time. He was going to send himself into overdrive.

A purple light bloomed from his iris and the whole space was filled with portals. He had sacrificed the one he prepared for Ilia because there was no way he could keep that open in addition to all the ones he needed to open before he was sucked too far away. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as adrenaline surged through his body, filling his veins with blood so quickly that they started showing and even threatened to pop.

The first order of business was to get Ilia and Elyn of of the cart and so the first two portals that appeared appeared behind and in front of the cart, instantly warping Ilia and Elyn out of the cart as the rest of the cart, now without a head, soared down the tracks.

At this point, Mell had been dragged a considerable amount. He needed to hurry. The next portal was one he already had opened - he opened a tiny portal with the concussive blasts and gloves right in front of Elyn's feet with instructions on how to use them.

By now, Ilia and Elyn had disappeared from his sight, so he was working with a guess.
Based on the ten second that have passed and the speed we're being pulled up, they're likely...right there. He created an exit portal right where he was and sent another about seventy feet down. The plan was to have it right at their feet so they could simply step in but it ended up just above Ilia's head level. He couldn't actually see where the portal had landed, he just had to hope and pray that they'd be able to get through.

He was already panting from opening six portals in quick succession and the faintest headache started to bug at the back of his brain.
More, more, stay useful, protect them. He would create a new exit portal every ten or so seconds, with the plan that Ilia and Elyn would be able to daisy chain them. He needed to keep them close enough that they could seamlessly go from one to the other, but also far enough that he didn't pass out from making too many portal. His head was ringing at this point but giving up was not an option.

Then the worst possible thing happened. He felt a slack in the rope. He gasped and looked up but couldn't see anything through the darkness of what he guessed was the creatures booty hole. Was fifth trying to cut the rope?
No Fifth, don't do that. That's the last thing you want to do. For some reason, the rope eased itself out again but he could still hear the sound of it straining, as it is was desperate to snap. Mellor gulped in fear for his life but held on all the more. He couldn't let the fear paralyse him.

Something happened between Fifth and the creature that caused some thrashing and before he knew it, Mell was slammed on the ground, the wind knocked out of him as he helplessly let go of the rope. His head was aching, ears ringing, world spinning. He felt like he needed to throw up everything he had eaten in the last week. There was a clear path for Elyn and Ilia to follow. they would pop up through the portals and, when gravity pulls them back down, they'd be sent to the next, higher portal. Elyn had energy to absorb. Ilia was Ilia. They would be fine. But Fifth was counting on Mell. And Mell was...counting sheep. Or pretty close to it.

Despite his best efforts, the strain, the pain and the pressure had caused his brain to tap out momentarily. It was not very long but, apparently, "not very long" is all Fifth needed to wreak havoc. When he came to, he could see what looked like fire coming out of one of the rooms down the hall.
Fifth? Has he gotten his gift? Is it fire? That would be the perfect thing given the rivalry between him and Ilia. No, wait, I don't have time to think on this right now. Fifth needs me.

He was helplessly tossed and scratched and pulled and rubbed against the walls while holding on to the rope, so his clothes were tattered and his skin was covered in small cuts and scrapes. He looked like he had just barely survived a mining accident. With what strength he had, he pushed all that aside, pushed the headache aside and pushed all pain aside, even pushed Naomi aside. Right now, there was only one thing on his mind...

Save Fifth.

He made it into the room just in time to see the creature jump off after Fifth and barrel down. He followed quickly, slowed by the pain he was feeling and still reeling from having so many active portals open. Thankfully, Fifth had managed to roll to cover just in time. A warm smile found its way to Mellor's face. He's alive, he's still alive. I made it in time. He saw the aberration leap into the air, preparing to crush Fifth. However, it was too little too late. Mell had already hopped over the railing to join Fifth and the aberration on the same level.

As he fell, he created a portal off to the side, a trickle of blood coming down his nose from having so many portals open.
No, shut up, bear with it. I can do more. As soon as he landed, he created one a hair away from the railing and, right before the aberration crashed on Fifth to send him back to the hotel, a portal appeared that sucked it up, warped it to the portal that was over the drop and spat the aberration out.

Mellor stood there smiling, blood slowly trickling from his nose. The smile wasn't one of pride or victory - as he wasn't foolish enough to think the aberration was dead. He walked towards Fifth, his legs trembling from the exhaustion.
"Finally...caught you..." he managed to get out through pants and a cheeky smile.

"Cavalry's on its way. Can you stand?"

Fifth threw up on Mell's feet and he nodded in understanding. "Fair...I wouldn't want to do much standing after what you went through either." Mell heard a pained, enraged, fury-filled screech as the creature began making its way back up the tracks. Mell sighed, rolled his eyes and turned to face where the creature was coming from, planting himself protectively in front of Fifth as the creature showed up. "Sorry, friend," he began as he wiped the blood that was coming from his nose, still sporting that 'everything's going to be alright' smile of his. "He's off limits."

He could barely see the outline of the creature, so he finally opened the flashlight portal on one of the walls, illuminating the whole area and allowing Mell and Fifth see the creature clearly. At this point, Mellor was moving based off willpower alone. If he didn't close the trail of portals he left for Ilia and Elyn soon, both he and Fifth would be aberration fodder. Mellor knew that all he could do was defend Fifth. He knew that in attack power, he was severely limited. That's why he was hoping Ilia and Elyn would get here soon. Until then though, he would die before fifth got even one more scratch. It was the job of older agents to take the blows the newer agents couldn't. And he was prepared to die on that hill, however hoping that it never actually got to the point where he needed to die.

Mentions: Ilia ( Zedalith Zedalith ), Elyn ( lyn. lyn. ), Fifth ( Togy Togy )
 
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Nyctiel
The Blue Composer
Anna Maria Schwarzschild
Wally's Adventure World, NEW YORK CITY
Despite her preference for elegant fashions and immaculate receptions, Anna waded past the grimy works of the uninhabited pathways alongside Angela. She was neither a stranger to the squalor nor the darkness. The nature of their abilities and deserving profession personified the very definition of the impending wetworks, lest one were to indulge the surprise that came with the image of a prim and proper lady so far out of her elements within the belly of a dormant beast. Alas, the Prussian was well-versed in her household abilities, and knew about the intricacies and perhaps methodical procedure to cure a soiled dress. In fact, laundry duty was something she prided herself in.

Stumbling upon the lone staff with a peculiar commodity of pacification nature, Anna initially allowed herself to fall into silent observation. While she had her words on endless pages of score drafts and literary pursuits, Angela's linguistic candor was best suited for the situation at hand.

Anna, amused at Angela's witty retort in regards to her voiced preferences, chose to break her silence with a jestful smile: "I suppose I am eligible for the contest, don't I?"

'If you see him, just stay away from the light.' The man's words accompanied the woman, dimming the entry ahead with its ominous insinuations of undeclared trials - well shrouded in the uncertainty of the darkest corners of the evil-ridden cove. "Then I suppose we need only walk in the shades." She added to the statement. "Danke, good sir, please pardon our leave. Auf Wiedersehen." She offered the man a light curtsy before pressing on with Angela in the lead. With Nyctiel's poetic prose still fresh in her mind, now augmented with the staff's cryptic words of caution, it befell her to raise her guards as the two women stepped past their point of no-return.

Anna's hands tugged at the plaits upon her dress, briefly inspecting her apparel neither for dirt nor comfort but that of its shrouded works. The crinoline contraption that shaped her dress served its bulky purpose as intended by its wearer, whose preparations were arranged long past since their departure from the Regenesis. Beneath its elegant fabric surface were multitudes of deliberated parchments that wove an intricate layer of arcane intentions should the needs arose. It would not be long until their cause paid the appropriate attention to the idea, as it often did in the past. Sporadic artificial illuminations twitched at the behest of the agents' presence, keeping Anna tuned in to their surroundings. Every droplet of stray pipes, every impact of their expedited steps, and every muttered breaths resonated with Anna. Yet, her calm expressions betrayed her of her deliberately methodical approach.

Taking Angela's hand, Anna crossed the leveled steps and complied. "Ja. Let us make haste." After about half a minute of sashaying ever-deeper into the underground cavern, the Prussian stopped dead in her tracks as she sheathed her breath. She recoiled at her own expressions, and finally raised her voice. "Halt!" The eerie silence finally caught up to them, robbing the Prussian of her already-constricted lungs. The pungent sentiment was plaguing her cognitive conscience, shrouding her concurrent speculations, gradually stalking her from the shadows before it finally caught her frigid blue eyes. Shifting her sights over her shoulders, the cold rays of ill intentions had finally found them. Petrified by its grotesquely-formless appearance, the magnificent glory of the dreaded omen had finally took form as the vendor had prophesied. A bright light, superceding all that was reasonable and ordained, had dawned on her and Angela. In this dark catacomb of silenced confessions and regrets, the unnatural light converged on Anna and her colleague.

The tailgating pest of a disturbing lumination made it difficult to fathom its design, let alone determine its source. Burning past the cascading sinews of shadows and flickering lights, the tunnel transformed into a realm that defied its own logic. It seemed as if the Almighty had carved a hole in the underground cavern from above to usher in a light of reprieve. Alas, this light was anything but heaven-ordained. Inching closer and closer, Anna furrowed her brows, as she leveled her sleeve to shield her sights in an attempt to make sense of their predicament, retrieving the very hand that had anchored her to Angela. Braving her optics, it appeared as if the light had been unleashed upon them from a untrodden path that managed to manifest itself at will. Anna questioned its origins, as she and Angela have failed consider its existence when they made entry. The emanating point in question had been brought alive with Angela and her presence.

By now, they were engulfed by its overwhelming rays, as she began to question the very grounds that she was standing on. Thoughts ran her by, eating away at her own assurance of her colleagues' whereabouts in this realm of nothingness but perpetual radiation. In an attempt to get her bearings, having broke visual and physical contact with Angela, Anna reached out to her colleague with her own voice. "Ms. Yeon! Where are you?"

AURS AURS Zedalith Zedalith
Code by Serobliss
 
Naomi (2).gifLOCATION: WALLY'S SECRET COVE
INTERACTIONS: ALMA Gh0stOcean Gh0stOcean NICHOLAS Kovacs Kovacs QING YI ERode ERode
MENTIONS:


The desolate cavities their eyes forsook drained the desperate heat owed to the atavistic propensity for survival. That which urged one dig to safety unvexed by the blistering red of shredded fingertips and ripped nails. That which demanded one’s legs stay in motion at the expense of frayed and scorching muscle. Even when the torrid rush of blood beneath her skin coated her in a sweaty dew and splotched her face an unseemly red, a chilling icicle spiked down her back at each suffered wail rattled from the bones of things that shouldn’t have been capable of sound at all.

Naomi was fool enough to have glimpsed the gruesome fate of one of her clones. Dragged into shadow, overpowered, and shattered. Face scattered across the dirt in hundreds of glistening shards, its resistance going limp thereafter.

The repulsed gag that violently jerked her stomach was muffled by her hand slapped against her mouth as she’s scourged with memories of her own demise. Where gemstone sundered, she saw blood. Where her clone laid, she saw herself in the flesh. Where the spawn besieged, she saw her assailant.

Inanimate as her clones may be, Naomi felt a weeping sympathy for it in that moment.

Surrounded by the skeletal faces of mortality, she pitied their exclusion for a second chance at the Seraphim’s whims. Those cracked and stripped bones were once warm skin, watery eyes, and irrefutably human. If the Seraphim had elected differently, Naomi would be nothing but bones and rot herself.

Her hand squeezed Alma’s to anchor her back to the present, not that it was much improvement. Its only merit being Naomi was alive. As alive as any of them could be. Looking at their hands to assure herself of this, a murmur of a thought poked through like the very tip of a knife lightly puncturing thin plastic.

Is this happening because Alma’s cursed?

A blur swathed in black excluding its face, which was a piercing white even in the dim. No atom in Naomi’s body could have reacted on time, she hadn’t even registered the blade before it swung. A hole must have opened beneath her. She must have sprained her ankle. Her hand released Alma’s as her arms instinctively swung forward in her unbalance. An explosive surge of pain rockets up her leg and seizes her lungs between a furiously clenched fist as her feet drag across the dirt. She yelps, certain that if not a sprained ankle, a definite broken one.

Naomi tumbled disastrously, grimacing as her wrist twisted then popped uncomfortably. One of the ribbons that held her braid came undone, that side of her hair loosened and draped with specks of dirt and rock tangled within it. Her entire arm looked as if it’d been grated, dollops of blood beginning to seep from the deeper cuts. She was smudged in dirt and dust, and she couldn’t feel her foot but that disorienting painful boiling persisted.

What was her shoe doing all the way over there?

Oh.

The pain had always been there, but the shock of seeing it was a different kind of monstrous agony. Naomi’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just choked air and failed whimpers. The scream, too large, had lodged itself in her throat and suffocated her. Blood. There was so much blood. There was so much blood, and it was hers. The moment she attempted to move her leg, sound burst out of her in an awful squealing cry, tears poured down her cheeks.

“No no no!” She wailed between hyperventilating breaths, mustering all the strength in her arms to push herself back, immediately aware of all the undead spawns that shambled towards her. Each string of movement or involuntary twitch recoiled any pursuit to envision her clone, the pain taking precedence over her psyche. Morbidly, she considered dying just to wake up at the hotel.

A ladder swung out from the shadows and boomeranged through a mob of skeletons, tossing them apart comedically. But Naomi wasn’t thinking of the humor, just the relief. Qing-yi and Nick made it. All she could do was cry harder in a contradictory slew of anguish and respite. Why did it hurt so much when there was nothing there to hurt?

"Fuck! I—I'm sorry just—I can't—" Trembling hands futilely wiped at her eyes and cheeks. "I can't breathe." She wept, chest hiccupping and spasming with each sob. What a catastrophic blow to her ego, she's not showing her face to any of these people for at least a week after this.
 








ARC 1






Pilgrim59 Pilgrim59 AURS AURS
The light struck them like a tsunami roused from tranquil waters, raging, surging - violating every crevice it seared. A chill begins in the heart and snakes through their capillaries despite the immense heat radiating from the intruding passage. It sept into their skin, crawling through their veins in place of blood. It lit them from the inside out, sifting through their minds and exhuming all secrets.

Run, it's a demand levied from something primal, but their legs are irresponsive - ankles locked into place. Yet, you cannot look away; you will die, two hemispheres of the brain are pushing, pulling, fighting for dominancy - the urge to run is strong, yet you must NOT look away.

It grows brighter, comes closer and the presence hovers over them like a executioner’s axe. Their bodies become brazen bulls, stiff cages that only serve in their torment. The heat seizes the chill in their veins, stifling it until nothing is left but a lurid blaze of agony. The light draws nearer - yet they cannot even scream.

His inky shape is a reverse lighthouse in the blinding intensity of his light's radiance. It swallows aught else, washing it away in a white glow until its shape is all that remains visible. The creature’s face forms a crescent moon, body draped in thick black cloth, his smile carnal and unwonted. Above, is a smooth and pale grafting - eyeless, yet there was a sense that it peered into a world beyond you. Its head lowers to be level with Fate's Agents, languid and unnatural in its movements before pulling itself apart at the chest.

A hungry black chasm stares back at them. It bleeds from his chest and grows, wrapping around their bodies like a velvet blanket. Heat becomes a comfort. Pain becomes bliss.

Their bodies are pulled apart and reformed a million times over. It feels like they are shunted through a pencil-thick pinhole by the necks. There was a sense of disconnection, where up and down had no meaning. For a second, not even darkness can find their eyes - merely the nothingness of an unseeing and ravenous void.

Then, light.



Pilgrim59 Pilgrim59

"Liebchen. Liebchan. Look here," he purrs, the warmth in his voice all-encompassing; each syllable was a love letter wrapped in a silk bow. They stood somewhat removed from the crowd, hands held with the tightness that only came with a romance that spanned decades. "My Schatz, have you ever seen such a sight!" he exclaimed in-beat with the splashing of water, as a killer whale performed a dive from a large pool in front of them, before landing in a earth-shattering splash. They sat in stands, with a small crowd on each side of them. At their front was a large pool of water. An animal trainer blew their whistle some distance away, while aquatic animals danced to their lead. In front of the couple, a sign read Wally's Splash Zone. "Anna my love, are you alright?" he asked, worry thick in his throat.

Anna Maria Schwarzschild. She was a veritable phantom of a bygone era, clad in wears not befitting the time. Yet she found herself assailed by something stranger still, a dull ringing that played in her head like a malfunctioning gramophone needle. She had no recollection of what had transpired over the past 6 months: there was no hotel, no revival - to her, she had always been here. Yet there was a sense of unease, a sense that something here was wrong. A hand covered her own in an attempt to comfort her, larger, masculine, and belonging to her life-long lover: Albrecht von Heeringen.

"Yankees are strange, entertaining, but strange," he spoke, attempting to take her mind off whatever it lingered. He raised his brow in that stern, yet gentle way he was so often to do. Anna was the only one who knew him beyond the stoic veneer. Beyond the medals and accreditations.

He wore his Prussian military uniform: a dark blue coat, tailored and adorned with gold. Epaulettes of gold perched on his shoulders, alongside a high stiff collar. He wore a ceremonial sash cut diagonally across his chest, and at his side hung a sword with a beautifully designed hilt. Where his eyes would be, was only the blankness of flesh, empty sockets burned over with scar tissue. The other faces in the crowd were much the same - eyeless, faces smoothed over by marred thews.

There was something wrong - Anna knew that much, yet she could not place what. Perhaps he wore a different cologne? When she ruminated on the thought too much a haze wafted its way through her mind, too thick to peer through.

"Are these seafaring creatures not to your liking, Liebchen?" he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. His mouth parted to press a firm kiss onto the surface of her hand, hard enough to push it backward before the hold released.

SCREEEE! A dolphin cried from the cerulean waters below, it was a high-pitched squeal that bound across the ears of the audience. It chased away the romantic ambiance like a rat gnashing their prey between its fangs. A silent chuckle perched onto his tongue, barely audible and restrained. His cheek became a light rosy shade from the intruding chuckle, he was still the same man as ever. It was only in these somber, gentle moments, that he allowed himself the leisure to laugh. Only with her: only with his Anna.




AURS AURS

"Thank you again, Angie. I don't know where I'd be now, without you," the words were reverent prayers in her ear. He wrapped an arm around her neck while they stepped in pace with a crowd of people. Around them were various arcade games, the buzzing of arcade gunfire, raucous laughter, and unbidden joy. There was a cascade of lights that bound against them, a heavy rainfall of colors that grew even brighter under the dimly lit halls of the gallery. "I want to make it up to you, I want to be the one that takes care of you for once," his grip grew a little tighter, drawing her in close enough to lean a head on her shoulder. He peered up at her with hollow eyes, skin spliced over the space in a haphazard mutation of meat and tissue.

Her head was fuzzy, ringing, with a violent sense that she was out of place here. But the thought was pushed down each time by powerful geysers of bliss. She was safe here, this was normal. She had won, it was a long-fought war, but through her sessions, she bested the demons that rage in the boy's head. There was a triumphant sense that hung over her, a cape she wore not over her shoulders, but over her spirit.

"Guardian angel - are you alright? I know this place might not be to your tastes, but it helped when my spirits were down," he lowered his head, lips curling upwards in a tentative half-smile.

Gail. The man was always troubled by voices that led him away. Those demons brought him to the alleyways where he preached, where crowds jeered and treated him like he should be wearing a tightly buttoned white jacket. But Angie was his savior, the maverick of a woman who beat away all that ailed him. He released the older woman from his hold, happy enough to simply hover by her side. "Let's play some arcade basketball. Highest score owes the other a favor?" he asked cheerfully, with a pointed finger over a game that read: Wally's Nut Shoot. An LED screen with a cartoony squirrel collecting nuts played on the opposite side, with baskets beneath them. Sensors carefully curated the points with each throw, with separate spaces for two players to play. Each basket awarded a different amount of points, depending on distance.

Gail stepped forward, the plastic ball held tight in his grasp. A careful arch and throw later, a cheerful voice called out on the other side, "Plus 50 points! Nice shot!" The number on Gail's side flipped from 0 to 50. "Now is your go. What do you say?"





WORLD WITHOUT EYES
 
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Ilia / Elyn
Dynamic Duo
Luke’s Holy Journey
Game Time
It tore through Ilia’s fingers before he could brace for the tension, rope slipping through his fingers like fine grains of dust. The creature did not give his mind time to process the thought; Fifth was here in one moment and gone the next. He felt his seat shift in pressure, yet did not even catch a glimpse of the gray shadow that lurked above them. His head turned to Elyn, mouth agape in astonishment, but he made no sound. She had a knack for noticing things others didn’t, but when he found the same look of a daze on her face he knew their goose was cooked.

In just a matter of seconds Elyn’s barely grounded mind scattered again. Mell’s hand on her shoulder disappeared, and she suddenly found herself on the floor, dizzy from both the shock and Mell’s portal. Ilia followed at her flank, body tearing through the vastness of space, before being reformed at the other end of the portal.

By the time the loud noises registered in her ears and she looked up, what she could only assume was the Aberration was gone, and there was something at her feet. I wanted things to speed up, but shit.

The second her eyes were able to properly focus, Elyn shrugged off her backpack and picked up the items at her feet, ones she quickly realized were sent by Mell from the short paper of instructions. Distantly, she could hear sounds of a struggle and screaming from what she could only assume was Mell’s portal as she skimmed the words.

Elyn threw the page on the ground and rose unsteadily onto her feet, she slipped on the gloves, picked up one of the bombs, and pulled at the pin, encasing it in her hands just in time for the blast. She stumbled backwards, barely keeping herself on her feet as her hands stung from the pressure. Just as the feeling faded, Elyn felt the energy from the blast flow through her. Already, she felt light on her feet, her dizziness fading to nothing as the feeling ran up her arms. It probably would have been more effective without the gloves, but this will make do.

Elyn managed one more bomb before she felt she was taking too long, managing to fit two more in her pockets before she finally looked at the portal in front of her. The concussive blast resounded throughout the space, loud enough to rake Ilia’s eardrums. The creature's many heads snapped in their direction, glowing orbs cutting through the darkness of their eyesockets.

A hallway of portals awaited them, hungry mouths sculpting a path that ripped through infinity in a breakneck path forward. It was a commendable effort by Mellor, Ilia thought - but the exhaustion would dampen his capacity to be useful in the throes of what lingered. While commendable, Ilia cast doubt that the fatigue equaled Fifth’s worth. Ilia lept into each portal like a blockade in a mile-long hurdle and his mind spun with each jump. He felt the contents of his stomach grumble in dissatisfaction. The sound of struggle jumped from portal to portal, creating a funhouse mirror-esque effect as they lept. Finally, they arrived, the monstrous gray form looming over his allies; Fifth and Mellor were both badly wounded.

The sight of the aberration left a taste in Elyn’s stomach far worse than Mell’s portals. Revolting was far too nice of a word for it, and Elyn was sure no word in a dictionary could match the disgust she felt at this very moment, and she fought to not look away.

Fifth was a hair away from a closed-casket funeral and the gruesomeness of it drew Ilia into a stunned silence. Ilia wanted the man to earn his keep, and boy did he ever.Well done Filth, you don’t fuck around.” he would give his praises when they were earned and never a moment sooner. Even Angie would struggle to amend these wounds and the pain would serve her well. He prioritized finding her in his mind after the skirmish, bringing Fifth to the mender to serve as a well to tap from - from how things were going, it looked like they would all need the extra juice.

The aberration’s mouths open in unity and an ungodly wail is unfurled from their core. The Forsaken Congregate zeros in on her, legs coiled back, claws unfolded. It springs forward with a speed that belied its size. The air shifted and the nearby gust felt like a passing subway was thrust in their direction. “Elyn, watch out!” Ilia hailed, body bracing for combat. The beast was a wounded animal, trapped, scared, and lashing out indistinctly at every shape that breathed.

The warning was all Elyn needed, she pivoted, focusing her newfound energy into her feet. A feeling of static spread down her calf as she increased her speed, rushing out of the way of the creature. The last thing Elyn wanted was to touch it, for fear of keeling over the second one of its many hands landed on her. Instead, she rushed towards the ride’s broken tracks and grabbed a long piece of splintered wood with her gloved hands.

She reeled back her arm, closing one eye like she’s seen many times on TV and launched the wood at the aberrations back. Harsh prickling at her fingers as she put all her strength into it and released the wood. The wooden plank splintered on impact, sending shards of natural shrapnel careening against its flesh. The Forsaken Concregate tried to reel against the force but found itself unable. An array of limbs thrashed madly against the floor while the wooden stake pinned it to the ground.

Water kissed the digits of his hand, wrapping, weaving, embracing his hold like a long-lost friend. It shifted shape as if it were an amorphous metal, oscillating before solidifying as an extensive halberd. His fingers snapped and a deluge of liquid shot out of the wall at his back, forming whetted arrows that hovered by his back. The portal that emanates light gives the arrows the appearance of silvery mercury, ready and poised to skewer his enemies. The axehead falls, reach extending like a lasso aimed straight for the beast’s legs.

The looming liquid halberd blindsided it in its fury, deftly carving a lump of mass from the creature’s body. Moist nectar splattered from the bleeding wound, painting the walls in a gray half-solid mass. It fought against the plank, pulling hard in a coordinated swing upward. The plank was pulled free with a squelch and a torrent of sludge spewed from the open wound.

A gray hand as large as Ilia’s torso dropped a hefty shadow over his form, nearly blotting out the whole of the portal’s light. A step brought Ilia backward while the arrows at his back were loosed, pushing the thing back enough for him to avoid its grasp.

The reality of their impending demise reflected off of countless beady eyes. Mouths were set ajar in a contortion of agony, foaming with a surge of bubbles. A transparent liquid flooded from their mouths in a hateful torrent of moisture. The liquid sizzled against the earth below, creating deep holes in the floor where it landed. Frothing, foaming mass bubbled as its body surged with soapy fluid; it grew in size until it looked fit to burst. A terrible silence fell over them in the preamble to disaster.SPLORCH! An explosion rocked the body of the creature, while a cascade of acid chuted out from every orifice.

The fluid sizzled against the floor and walls while the acetic undertone of molten dust seeped into his nostrils. It struck him against his legs, chest, and neck, quickly stripping him of his first layer of skin. His mouth was unlatched to cry out in pain, hands batting futilely against the fluid only to spread it further.

ELYN! Kill it quickly!!” he cried out in pain, while the corrosive substance continued to eat through his body. He set his arm in the air and pulled down, springing free a gentle mist of water that blessed their bodies with tender relief. It diluted the acid, enough to prevent the substance from burning through their flesh, yet it could not keep pace with the unending tide that the creature spewed.

Elyn did not bother swallowing her scream as the acid pierced her skin as she fell to the floor. Every fight she has been in has convinced there is no greater pain she could feel, and once again the last one is topped. Elyn raised her arm in to cover her face, the acid breaking through her sleeves moments before Ilia’s water rained on her skin.

A halting moment passed as Elyn drew in many halting breaths. Sizzling liquid ran across her arms, turning into gaseous heat that only grew in temperature as she drew in her breaths and absorbed it. The static strength and pain in her body turned into a dull itch, heat and dust in her throat as she forced herself to her feet and fought the urge to cough. The scratchy feeling along her skin was a new one, but hid her searing pain enough that she could open her eyes and focus on the beast in front of her.

At Ilia’s urge, Elyn forced herself towards the aberration, faster and faster as more of the acid landed on her body until she reached the plank that had fallen from its body. She lifted it up, barely registering the liquid stuck to the wood soak through her gloves as she reared it back with both hands. She focused all her energy into her arms, the scratching growing so harsh on her limbs she was sure she could itch her skin off if she tried, and swung at the monster.

The plank broke into nothingness as the aberration flew backwards, its mouths wide open as it slammed against the wall and imploded. Its internals splattered across the walls and onto Elyn, and she couldn’t bring herself to look anywhere but forwards, to see the shattered pieces of the monster spread throughout the tracks and walls.

Instead, Elyn fell to her knees, the smoke finally exiting her body through violent coughs as she felt the acid's energy leave her body. She felt like she needed to vomit, but nothing came out, and her head pounded with each wheeze. When the coughing finally subsided, Elyn remained on the ground, attempting to regain her bearings once again as she wiped sludge from her face. "Fuck," Note to self– never absorb energy from acid ever again.

Ilia took breaths inwards in pace with Elyn, slight exhaustion wrecking his lungs. The fight was over and their enemy slain, yet the ache lingered over all of them, with Fifth taking the brunt of the damage. He reached into his phone and sent a quick text to Angie, “WYA? Done with your badie yet? I’m hurt … and so is someone else on our team, but not quite as bad.” He pressed sent and motioned to put the device into his pocket, but the screen lit up almost immediately. He snapped it back to his face and was immediately met with a message: “Message cannot be sent. Recipient is out of range.”

Odd, but they were underneath the Earth by a good few feet - he shelved it for now, and his phone with it. The Russian strolled over to Fifth with a smug smile pulling at the edges of his face. A hand was extended forward, arm firmly pointed towards him. “You’re still alive. Not bad.
 
























angie yeon ;








































































































































































































































































































  • mood
























    confusion, conflict.







































































































































Angela doesn't see it when Anna does.

It's rumbling stones for her. A gaping divide beneath the soles of her feet. Seconds slice her, snapping at Anna to be quiet as light swallows them.

This is familiar.

Like sunlight. Staring into it until red burns roved her eyelids. Until all distinction between herself and the world
is gone.

It violates everything it touches like a crest of maggots on a flesh shore.

Angie humored herself with a Sunday at the Louvre, once. Wearing her finest tweed, defying the impartial cold. She had no true interest in fine art, but one piece stood out.

Something classical. Foreboding. Like her life was doomed to be a Dante Alighieri footnote, and she felt kinship with the damned thing.

A figure cloaked in decay, rendered in vivid, undulating oils. Misshapen face, ravenously defected from the tyranid skull of most aberrants she'd captured in her notes. Hollow pools of infection where the eyes should be.

Pestilence.

This was pestilence she was inhaling, invading her consciousness. It's dangerous isn't it? Nasty too. Drinking up all this anguish on instinct, like a baseless thing starved for seven ungodly years.

The hair on her nape stood electric, juxtaposed with slow, chilling breaths rolling up her spine, her eardrums. Her body tensed, soft, trained muscles coiling like springs ready to snap.

Had she failed? Underprepared?

The Cove aberrants seemed the nesting type. Why else claim the pool as home base? How could she have estimated, on her own mortal calculations, that the pair were active hunters? That they would be prey?

None of that seemed important now. The details fuzzed over, she found her vision clearing into form.

Fucking hell, don't space out in public. People stare.

An arcade. She'd never taken herself to one before. Not of her own volition. Were they always like this? With the sick-green evening mist, its garish complexion had her scanning for a health inspector at the door.

Saltwater. Decaying wood. Steady mint chocolate chip breath on her ear. Goosebumps rippling over her skin like stones in water.

Cold, clammy sweat mixed in with the night's heat, forces an uncomfortable, disorienting feeling. Her own bloodrush echoed in the back of her head—but, curious. She can’t find her earbuds.

This was…not familiar. This sensation was hazy with its heavy-handedness, like the palm of a captive trying to smash through bulletproof glass. [ thud! thud! thud! ]

She blinked, and—Gail. Glowing like a saturated sunroom, he looks…good. Good as new even. Beyond all traumas of an unforgivable life. Like an exquisite painting in the loom, however, this artist made no mistake. It seemed to come together.

That's right. The puppydog eyes got her. She let him drag her out beyond the itinerary—said he wanted to see the Big Apple.

She reached out. Hand trembling as she brushed his autumnal hair. “I told you not to call me that. It's so embarrassing,” she chuckled.

Angela; her dad chose it during the immigration process, worried she would not assimilate well on her own. It wasn't her first choice, but she never worried about anyone pronouncing Angela wrong, until now.

Gail's voice is disgusting.

Grating her nerves when nudged up against the mechanical whirs of the arcade, and the asynchronous silence lingering in the absence of sound.

A dull one-second-off. one-second-off. one-second-off flooded her thoughts, distilling the illusion to the point of hesitation.

A flicker of longing, replaces her grimace with stubbornness. This imprint is enough for her. Like a quiet chapter returned to her. Like ambition finally caved to comfort.

“You don't have to make anything up to me but…why here? I hate loud noises.” Gail had no relatives willing to put up with him.

The cruel religious type, they thought he was devilspawn. It only got worse once he started…confessing.

And then the split happened. Fascinating, how a normal child can break like this.

With no family of her own, they fit like a master set, carefully antagonizing of one another, and yet… precisely what they–what she needed.

color=red]Her heart raps in her chest like a man detained.[/color] He'd look better if he ate something.

Maybe she'd buy him some candy. Her chest. Bitter Seville Oranges. Locked up in her chest, the glass of her ribs start to break. His favorite.

Her heart splinters surgically, biologically, animalistically.

She blinks, tries to clear her vision, but the sense of wrongness mounts. Gail's face blurs at the edges, flickering like an old film reel.

Was she okay? No clue. Was it happening again, here? Now?

She takes a step back, her breath shallow and quick. Reaching into her pocket, there's an empty pack of gum. The piece in her mouth lost all flavor.

The mint-chocolate scent, the cacophony of carnival sounds, the garish lights—it blitzed her senses with too-perfect construction.

“Gail–” her heart. Again. Shattering into a mosaic of his lost smile, each fragment piercing her soul with relentless ache. She'd always been stone, immovable, unsinkable. It was her script in life and in death. But now, standing in this place that should be real, a crack hollowed out her resolve.

“Every- everything's fine. You wanted to be here. I'll get over–” For the love of God, Ha Neul let me have this. A slow, quiet gathering of moisture in her eyes.

Wet, warm, then cool. A tear. She swallows hard, trying to maintain her composure.

They never found the body.

They stopped searching after a few months. His last adoptive family hadn't showed much interest in him. He became a burden once the government stipend ran out. If he was dead they didn't have to risk their face with the neighbors.

It worked out for everyone, her included.

His coffin went down with weights instead of his lovely, vindicated face. How could she forget that? She paid for it.

It did not work out for her.

Another tear joined the first. Angela didn’t break down; she didn’t collapse into heaving sobs. There was too much pride in her wounded, blue face, and in her despair, her curiosity roused.

The man looked disrespectfully stitched together, as if superimposed over the real world and puppeted around. His eyes, usually so full of life and mischief, were hollow.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She's missing something. Missing something. Missing something. Something.

She took the ball. Dropped it. Caught it again, a boneless panic setting in as sweat burned her glare. “Do… do you remember your birthday? Gail?

If he answered this, it'd lull that demented, evil part of her:

Her best friend, her brother and endless companion was alive and well.

She did right by the only person she had left, and that was him. She didn't fail him.

She threw the ball, knowing better than to alert him to anything truly wrong with her. “I…I think I'm proud of you. That's all.” Lie.

Angela swallowed, wads of trepidation going down into her stomach until… solemnly, she picks up on the rough texture of a knife in her pants, the only tactical gear she toted beyond a gun.

Why… did she carry these into an arcade?









































































































































































































































































no song linked








































































































♡coded by uxie♡
 
font call font call font call
NICHOLAS NEALE-ST JAMES
LOCATION. WALLY'S ADVENTURE WORLD
𖤍 NYCTIEL 𖤍
Take care of Naomi. Take care of Naomi. Take care of Naomi. Take care of Naomi—
Oh... fuck.
That's... that's...
Blood. Dribbling off of fake jewels and expensive, designer fabric. Bone and bruised, tattered flesh peered out of the inside of the shoe like a possum caught in a trap. It'd just come to a rolling stop as a certain country boy stared, himself a kneeling wax statue of pure horror.
Naomi's... foot. He'd just tripped over Naomi's severed foot.
Swallowing the urge to hurl, Nick scrambled back up and resumed the frantic trek over to his fellow ex-university peer. His throat tightened at the sight of her—a wilted flower, trembling under the threat of bein' crushed and smeared across the pavement by tear-jerkin' pain. Hard to believe that just yesterday, Naomi was the very picture of a Junebug on a warm summer morning, full of pep and sparklin' ideas. Over some Hotel grub, she'd talked his ear off on how they should grab that camcorder he'd bought with the few measly dollars he scraped together helpin' around Angie in her clinic, get it a nice, big memory card and start recordin' more than just the layabout of the Regenesis Hotel.
Recordin' what? Well, her plan was to reel in a crowd—folks who'd pay to watch them tangle with them monstrous things, net them both some nice passive income. They'd start small, she said. Chasin' after them fun low-level critters, and then maybe work their way up to the big boys, all while hiding their identities behind fake names online. Thanks to the afterlife agent effect, no one would truly ever remember their faces anyway—only the content they'd churn out, content they'd label as 'ghost-hunting'.
It was an off-the-wall scheme, the kind only a professional slacker with a penchant for bubblegum pink could concoct. It was clear she saw Nick as her closest go-to for tech and camera wizardry, a role that could kill two birds with one stone: coax him out of his self-imposed exile on the fringes of his hometown, pull him out of that haze of despair and drink and force them both more into the thick of things, providing the much-needed practice and hours they craved to hone their skills against aberrations.
Well, if this ain't the definition of thick of it, I don't know what is! Fuckin' focus, Nick, focus!
With all the speed of a snappin' turtle's bite, Nick shed his shirt off and began to wrap it around Naomi's bleeding stump. Thankfully, the blood flow was not as intense as he'd initially thought. "Don't you worry none, alright?" Nick was breathless and sweatin' his own bucketful, but he nonetheless managed to sound calm and in control. "I know it hurts bad. But I got you, okay? Think in 3's. Count three objects, three names, three—uh, three kinds of puppies you'd wa—"
Suddenly, a blood-curdling screech echoed through the air, followed by the sound of crashing rock. The A-tier aberration, impaled by the Featherlite ladder, was being dragged about like a badly-aimed bullet across various corners of the cave. Trying to ignore the very obvious chaos happening behind him, Nick continued to babble away as he hooked his arms under her armpits, dragging her gently as he could nearer to a bigger rock where he thought he could elevate the leg. "Angie'll take the pain away, you'll get reset, and hey, about that crazy ghost-hunt filmin' idea of yers? Gave it some more thought, and I say, why the hell n—"
Just then for the second time in a row, the Aberration's screech pierced the air, this time laced with an urgency that chilled Nick to the bone. Naomi’s terrified scream slit through the noise, and he knew with a cold, peripheral certainty that the creature was flying straight toward them. Time seemed both a lightning strike and a languid feline, stretching and slowing down to a crawl as adrenaline pooled into his veins. Within a fraction of a second, the world around them shimmered and refracted 'til they were thinner than strands of silk. The unintentional missile that was the A-tier and the ladder passed right through them, crashing into the nearby wall with a deafening impact.
Silence, save for the distant shuffle of sandwich wrapping. Then, a guttural groan that slowly, painfully, morphed itself back into an upright form. Its gaze, twin pools of molten rage, twitched until it fixed itself on Qing Yi, the source of its aerial torment. But Qing Yi was oblivious, her attention split between the delicate task of extracting the sandwiches without compromising the integrity of her blouse and sharing them with Alma.
Heart poundin' like a jackhammer in his ears, Nick let Naomi go and swiftly turned round, gaze canvassing the cavern floor. Gut roiling in disgust, he snatched the closest projectile he could and launched it at the A-tier. Naomi's severed foot and shoe landed with a sickening but satisfying thud against the creature's finely shaped skull. Without hesitation, Nick brought his fingers to his lips and, as if this creature were no different from the ones his uncle owned on his farm, let out a piercing whistle. "Oi, oi—Bessy! Over here!"
As crude as it was, the tactic worked. The A-tier, newly christened as Bessy, now had him in her bristling, beady little sights. With a flick of a bony wrist, the ground beneath her burst into fractures like a boil, spewin' out a mess of rotted flesh and cracked bone. A whole new litter of undead clawed their way up, their eyes shinin' like rotten jack-o-lanterns.
"Oh, shit..."
Nick started backing up, slow at first. Then like a chicken with its head cut off, faster and faster 'til he turned back round, sprinting off in full speed, the corpse bride and her army hot on his heels, tryin' to get her as far away from Naomi and everyone else. Fighting down the urge to scream as fear dragged its spindly fingers down his bare spine, Nick yelled out to the sandwich-munching pair. "Hey! A lil' help here?"
INTERACTIONS. ERode ERode AURS AURS Gh0stOcean Gh0stOcean Klown Klown
 
0mVlb4C.png
Kovacs Kovacs Klown Klown Gh0stOcean Gh0stOcean

Qing-Yi was faster.

Caerwyn was stronger.

Their combined strengths complimented each other, so long as Alma herself was safe.

“Coming, handsome~”

The ladder, shredded to bits by the Abberation’s retaliation, rose up one last time to fly as interception, spinning towards the Whisperer once more. She had grown wise to it though. A swift swing sliced through the aluminum, parting the ladder around her, but that delay allowed Qing-Yi to interpose herself between the A-tier and her fellow Agent instead. The wrath that had risen up was smothered once more, drowned beneath the waves, beneath decades left amongst the corpses of those She had wronged and saved. What was there left, but to proceed? The inertia of a century of misplaced faith would not stop at the mere promise of oblivion, symbols of Her sin brought to serve ad infinitum.

A rusted sword screeched out from its scabbard, its wielder wetting it within the waters.

A catchy tune whistled out through pursed lips, the wingless one floating above it all.

A rasping dirge escaped bloated cords, as the sinner sank into the depths.

There could be no common ground between them, not when the Seraphim stood on high, not when even the promise of salvation would be a lie. Qing-Yi knew not the Whisperer’s story, and the Whisperer cared little for an Agent’s paltry pity. In this Cove, there could only be violence. In this Cove, one would die as many times as needed until the other fell.



Calamitous! Caerwyn’s blade was tidal in force, the waters parting as the phantasmal knight cleaved through masses of undead. He pursued with dogged rage, knowing that though it was no fault of her own, Alma would once more take on the responsibility of Naomi’s dismemberment. Skeletal shards and rotted viscera filled the mist-strewn air, while the Whisperer Herself had become as shadow. Requiems kissed the fallen Sister’s lips, phantasmal sewing threads linking up the scattered corpses before sewing them tight into a sacrophagus that collapsed upon the wrought-iron knight. Yet in that void of chaff, Qing-Yi shot forth, a swallow chasing shadow. She flitted in and out, steel hammer parrying bone lance as her body rotated and tumbled in defiance to all known laws of motion and physics. The frenzied exchange continued six times within the span of two seconds, neither side able to so much as land a glancing blow, but while the Whisperer sought to extinguish Qing-Yi’s life, Qing-Yi herself succeeded so long as she bought time.

A metallic roar sounded, a sanguine glare shining within the depths of that undead mound before the phantasmal knight wrenched himself free. He smote the first zombie to scrambled towards him, blade cleaving from crown to groin, then switched his grip. The Whisperer was faster than him, but what of objects sent by him? The flat of the blade smashed into the two halves of the course, sending human shrapnel outwards like a shotgun blast. She twisted her body in response, the mutable form of an Abberation becoming as a bolt of fabric as the Whisperer sprung a-

The hammer’s claw snagged against fabric, biting deep.

The Abberation turned, a cold mien meeting the meaningless smile of the Agent.

Human bones, propelled at the speed of arrows, embedded themselves into the Whisperer’s form, yet the blow was far from debilitating. She drew her lance back, the bones spiralling into a thinner point, a killing point, then thrust it towards Qing-Yi. At this range, in that position, it would have been a strike into center mass, piercing any number of organs before exiting the other side.

But Qing-Yi flew without wings. Her hand slipped off her hammer, relinquishing the weapon in exchange for completely reorientating her body where she stood. The tip sliced a line from her jaw to her temple, hot blood splattering out. Half her vision turned red, but her limbs moved without regard to the adrenaline-inducing pain as she wrapped her arms and legs around the lance as if it were a tree. Then, she flew up, yanking the Aberration’s body up with her, and the Whisperer immediately understood what the Agent was trying to do.

Caerwyn charged, black smoke surging from his cloak as he swung with the intention of horizontal bisection, and in return, the Whisperer detached her lance-arm instead, losing only her hair to his strike. He followed through with a vertical strike next, a blur of steel that for a moment, resembled the cross once borne by the savior. But She rolled to the side, narrowly evading as stone was hewn and water was lifted from the meteoric impact. Without a lance, without a full length of hair, the Whisperer grew ever-faster, slipping away from Caerwyn’s reach before springing out into the air. An undead servant burst out from the walls, their dilapidated form twisting into another spear, another arm, another weapon to grant the Seraphim-slaves release.

Yet while the Knight was stronger, the Wingless was faster.

Half her vision was red, but the other half was clear.

Her index finger pointed at the target, and the Feather-blessed bone-lance responded in kind. A whisper in the Cove’s damp wind. An alabaster bolt for a heart long shrivelled in decay.

The lance travelled swift, piercing the Whisperer’s outstretched hand before it could pierce Her heart. She fought to assimilate it, reclaiming the corpse-weapon as her own, but Seraphim’s gift thwarted off the unholy influence. Lance and Aberration slammed into the wall, and a motley collection of skeletal hands sprung out to grasp at the weapon, trying to pull it away, to break it into pieces. It spun still, a drill that drew the tip closer and closer and closer…until the combined might of the Aberration’s horde stopped it at last, mere millimeters away from the Whisperer’s pale flesh.

That would have been the end of it, if a shadow did not fall upon the Aberration.

A red star shone within the fathomless void.

A gauntlet creaked to form a fist.

The hammer struck the nail, and it was the wall beneath the sister that broke first, sending her twisted form into the darkness of the corridors.



Qing-Yi picked herself off the waters, splashing her face and rubbing the blood out of her eye. It didn’t really help, and it really just hurt, so she settled for tying her hair back into a ponytail instead.

She drew in a breath, then let out a breath. Her emotions undulated, but adrenaline still made her jittery. A calm was required. A deathly focus.

For she could hear it from beyond the hole, a dirge sung anew.

The hunt had not yet ended.
 
Strixiel's Finest
alma rhys/naomi amandine
location
Wally's Secret Cove
tags
Naomi ( Klown Klown ), Nick ( Kovacs Kovacs ), Qing-Yi ( ERode ERode )

There was a sinking feeling in Alma’s stomach.

Something felt amiss. She hadn’t had enough time to properly analyze the various winding caverns of Wally’s Secret Cove; hell, she didn’t even get to look at a map of the place before she was thrust into it, face to face with an A-tier aberrant. She had been navigating all these caves through pure instinct, an unconscious guiding force that told her maybe this next turn would be the one.

But right now, she felt as though they were being led to a trap. Like they took a wrong turn long ago, and their outcome was inevitable: a dead end.

Or maybe she was just hungry?

Before Alma could even make such a diagnostic check of her body’s caloric count, she felt Naomi’s hand slip from hers. And in the half-second Alma had to turn to face her companion, the pinkette was already tumbling on the floor, leaving her sparkly bubblegum self coated in dust, dirt, and blood.

“Naomi!” She cried out as she fully pivoted towards her friend, trying to make sense of how she tumbled in the first place: did she trip over a rock? Maybe there was a hole on the ground she missed? Perhaps she sprained or rolled her ankle while running?

The answer lie a few feet behind her, connected to her by a thin stream of blood.

“Oh.”

She watched as Naomi desperately, helplessly crawled back against the impending wave of undead, stretching that crimson line between her foot and her ankle ever thinner. Caerwyn, whose last command was to “cover their rear” held steadfast against the countless writhing corpses, but one knight alone could not challenge an army.

Alma knew she needed to get to Naomi. Triage from this distance was difficult, but a fucking amputated foot wasn’t exactly hard to tell from a glance. She needed to close the distance, but she still hadn’t pinpointed what caused the injury in the first place. A wisp of shadows danced beneath her feet—visions maybe, the cave was dark after all—and for a brief moment, she wondered if the aberrant had done this as reparation for its own amputated limb. She couldn’t worry about that now, though. Naomi needed immediate treatment, and the longer she took, the longer—

She blinked, and she was on the floor, clutching her head, as a large metal ladder sang through the empty caves of the Cove and struck something behind her. Alma hardly had the second necessary to turn to whatever that something was before she heard the pained wail of the aberrant, who had been ready to impale her a few mere moments ago.

She watched the Agents Qing-Yi and Nicholas approach, the former gracefully floating in the air, nearly perfect, unblemished, as she handed over a wrapper filled with turkey sliders with a lazy smile. Nick, on the other hand, looked panicked and frazzled at the sight of Naomi and her sudden weight loss.

Turning her attention towards the aberrant, who had since recovered from the surprise strike, she noted their surroundings, potential escape avenues, and anywhere she could find safety for herself and Naomi.

There was no safety.

Her gut instinct was right. This was a trap. Inside this larger opening, the only tunnel was the one they currently occupied. And with the undead at their backs and the aberrant ahead, Alma concluded the severity of their situation.

Dead end.

On one hand, this (somewhat) worked to her advantage. Fewer avenues the aberrant could escape from, especially with backup from Nick and Qing-Yi.

On the other, they had a serious injury and very little time or safety to treat it.

Qing-Yi ordered Nick to take care of Naomi, Alma to call Angela and Anna, and Caerwyn to assist her in the fight. Alma found it odd that Nick would be told to treat Naomi, while she was told to make the call, when she looked far more prepared to treat wounds than he did, and he likely had a better idea of where they were than she did.

Nonetheless, she cooperated. She had heard Nick had been taken up by Angie, so surely he had some first-aid training, right?

“Caerwyn, assist Miss Qing-Yi!” Alma barked to her faithful knight, who drew its attention away from the significantly thinned horde of shambling bones towards its charge. “I authorize Miss Qing-Yi to give you express orders!”

“At once, my liege.” Chainmail and armor rattled as it made its way to Qing-Yi’s side, blade drawn and ready for combat.

Next, Miss Angela, Alma reminded herself as she pulled out her phone. Almost as if by instinct, her delicate fingers punched in the numbers with speed and precision. But when she put it up to her ear, all she could hear was static. Somewhere within the static, whimpering, sobbing, crying. The aberrants were affecting their signal.

This was all the backup that would be coming for now.

Almost as if capitalizing on that revelation, she watched the aberrant dart for Nick and Naomi, who both narrowly avoided certain demise. It took an exhale for Alma to realize she had been holding her breath when she saw the aberrant make its move.

And in perhaps the most foolish show of bravado, Nick attracted the attention of the aberrant. By throwing Naomi’s dismembered foot, no less.

Idiot.

With the aberrant in tow, Nick corralled it back to Qing-Yi, freeing Naomi from its wrathful gaze.



The ache of embarrassment stung with equal vice to salt on exposed flesh. Exposed Naomi felt, though not as exposed as sweet southern-lipped Nick, whose shirt now darkened with the soak of her blood. Her eyes squeezed shut from the unbearable sight. She chanced at least a ‘thank you’, but all that croaked was a miserable, inarticulate whimper.

Three, three, three. Alma, Nick, Qing-yi. Blood, bones—no. Her head shook to reset. She tried again; Nick, Shirt—oh god, his shirt. The aberration’s strident howl jolted Naomi, her slackened lids tightened to block the mere concept of light from her vision. Nick’s shirt, she needed to buy him a new one when they made it out of this. She counted in threes: Gucci, Supreme, Calvin Klein.

Surely one would suit his taste. Nick’s blathering was everything it needed to be. Distracting, soothing. Long winded enough that her brain was busier playing catch-up than brooding over pain. The words ‘Ghost’ and ‘Hunt’ were the last she wanted to hear in the same sentence right now, but the sentiment was appreciated enough that Naomi allowed her eyes to open.

Perfect timing—or not—as the bloodthirsty aberration’s bone-seizing shriek bounced off the cavernous walls again, somehow more personal than the last. Naomi’s hand alarmedly flew up to catch Nick’s. The frantic touch intended to alert him of the monstrosity’s hared approach, its blurred limbs devouring the space between them. On impulse, Naomi screamed.

“Nick!” She knew she was dead weight. She knew she wasn’t anything of use. But please don’t drop me.

Unthinking, or perhaps overwhelmed by the flood of musings all cautioning death, Naomi squeezed Nick’s hand and braced for the impact, vision blocked again. She waits for the violent lurch of hungry arms yanking their bodies, the shredding of skin against razor sharp teeth. Instead, the collision is heard several feet behind them.

Pulse still drilling through her skull, Naomi braves an inhale. She’d yet to process what had happened before Nick released her.

“W-wait—” Her shoe is flung at the aberration’s head, severed foot tucked within it and all. She didn’t know which left her more aghast: the fact that Nick had chucked her foot like a common projectile, or that he whistled for the aberrant’s attention while completely shirtless. Her stomach dropped once he escaped her reach, the oppressive anchor of her worthlessness dragging her deeper into devastation.



Fuck.

Alma was never one to think, much less use, obscenities, being taught as a child that they were untowardly and unbefitting of higher status. But in this exact moment, that one word captured her sentiment on the entire sentiment.

The aberrant had lured them into a corner. Back-up had arrived, but Nick was very clearly woefully unprepared for combat of this level. Qing-Yi and Caerwyn were certainly keeping the aberrant on its toes, but it was fast, nimble, and seemed to have a penchant for switching targets when the battle turned disadvantageous.

And the biggest target on the list was now leaning against a wall, still bleeding from several different sustained injuries, and nigh defenseless.

“Hang on, Naomi!” Alma quickly made a bee-line for her, taking off her first aid pack and starting to rifle through it before she even approached her patient. One, two rolls of gauze, a handful of antiseptic towelettes, even a tourniquet if it came to it, all filled her hands as she knelt next to her companion and assessed the situation in depth.

Her biggest cause for concern was undoubtedly the foot. Nick was right to try and wrap the wound and apply pressure, but she worried about the prospect of using his shirt, of all things, as the first layer. Especially a shirt he had been wearing, doing Seraphim know what, and almost certainly sweating in the awful summer.

“Gah, Mr. Nicholas…” she quietly murmured as she pondered what to do.

Well… I guess we should best hope the infection will not be too severe before 7 AM…

“Alright, Naomi. I need you to tell me exactly where it hurts, and how bad. I know it sounds like a stupid question, but you may have sustained more injuries than are currently visible to the naked eye.”


Nothing Alma said was a threat, nor was it foreboding. The indisputable creases of concern crinkled her pristine, doll-like face. A face Naomi had been convinced was a stranger to emotion. There’s a tension in her brows and a focused curl to her lip. Naomi knew Alma was worried. Naomi knew Alma was trying to help. But when the moment for her to speak arose, it wasn’t the pain that silenced her.

”Alma? I’ve never had a mission go as badly as the one I had with her.”

A poison trickle of a memory. A whisper exchanged between one unmemorable agent to another, Naomi the inadvertent audience. A nasty rumor to push the blame of one’s misfortunes onto another, thus giving it more substance than mere chance or lack of skill. She’d thought nothing of it then.

”Maybe she’s a real witch? That rusty suit of armor…I don’t know. Doesn’t it look…monstrous, sometimes? Like an aberration? A witch and her demon. Heh, doubt the Seraphim would let that slide.”

It made no sense. It wasn’t anything formed by faithfully considered truths, more strung up like dusty cobwebs in unexpected corridors where one might accidentally walk, never truly getting the sticky tangle out of their hair.

”She killed my partner. Stole precious hours from them, hours they needed. All because she did some botched first-aid attempt. I didn’t believe it when they said it but…”

Time sloughed past as if wading through gummy molasses, Alma’s hand began its descent onto Naomi’s foot. A gentle, sweet, lithe hand withholding a surprising might. The same hand that steadied Naomi when her resolve wavered. The same hand Naomi had gripped when Alma assured her they’d make it out alive.

”...she’s cursed. She’s a blight.”

“Don’t—!” Naomi flinched, palm haltingly swinging forward just short of swiping Alma’s hand. Her body had recoiled as if yanked by a string, each subconscious fear bred by overheard murmurs festering into a haunting blain that finally burst. The regret nearly flattened her. Naomi had never felt more hideous.

The trepidation is replaced with realization, and then remorse. The kind that leads people to carve open their stomachs in repentance. Air trembled between Naomi’s lips, her face screwed in utter agony for her mistake.

“N-no, wait, I’m so—”

“Ah.” Alma interrupted curtly.

She knew. She knew that reaction. That look. That fear. She knew where it came from.

Naomi did not see Alma. She saw the Witch of Rhys. The Witch of Strixiel.

“Don’t touch me, you bitch…” An agent moaned, grasping at his opened chest cavity with little to no avail of staunching the wound. “I’ll… Take my chances… I don’t need you fucking things up for me…”


“I see.” Alma’s fingers, outstretched and ready to deliver tender care to her companion, curled back into the palm of her hand.

“Please…” An agent shook her head. Her leg was missing, and a serious gash was torn through her side. Her eyes were dim, fading, and Alma could prevent it. She saw the concern on the doll’s face, and shook her head again. “I don’t… I don’t want… Your help…”

“Such is how it always is.” Alma rose to her feet, leaving her pack and the removed medical supplies near Naomi.

“You scoundrels… You fiends…!” Caerwyn’s voice roared through the lobby of the Regenesis Hotel, accosting two Agents who were harassing Alma. “Day and night, my liege toils away, learning how to save your lives, how to seal your wounds, how to cure your ails! And yet, at every turn, you demonize, you patronize, you deny such life-saving care! And for what?! Naught else but falsities!? You slander the good, kind name of my liege with your black-laced words, your venomous tongue, that most hideous soul trapped within such fragile armor!”

Rusted metal creaks and groans as it grinds against its metal scabbard. A blade is drawn. Then swiftly pointed at the agents’ necks.

Their eyes are engulfed in terror.

“I will make an example of you. No longer will such ill-founded rumors be spread of my most honorable, most benevolent liege. May this public execution show to all—ALL you lot who yet spectate—what true fear—!”

“Caerwyn.” Her voice is soft, hoarse. She does not look up from the ground beneath her. Yet her hand instinctually finds her knight’s arm. Small, lithe fingers wrap around a decayed and tarnished rerebrace. The arm beneath it, raised and poised to strike, falters. “Please. Stand down.”

There is no command behind her voice. There is no urge to submit to her will. Caerwyn’s eyes do not glow with the recognition of a formal order.

Through its own will, the blade is sheathed. A thin, black mist emanates from underneath the scorched helm.

“Understand this, peons. My liege knows mercy the likes of which you charlatans will never comprehend. Think dutifully on what that mercy has given you.”


“Forgive me, Miss Naomi. I became attached. I lowered my guard. Do not fret, I will no longer be overstepping my bounds, not ever again.” Inside, behind a porcelain face that now wore nothing, not fear, not heartache, not worry, something broke.

Such is the way it must always be.

Any stammered, last-minute apology Naomi mustered fell on deaf ears. Alma’s role was not to aid her fellow Agents. It was never to aid them. It was always to lead Caerwyn, that destructive, demonic specter, into battle. To destroy aberrants.

To consume them.

“Caerwyn!” She called, and the word rolled off her tongue in a slightly different manner. A more eloquent, ancient tone of the honored name. There is presence, there is command, but most of all, there is hurt behind her voice.

Caerwyn responded. Impaling its blade into the aberrant to keep it pinned, it turned its helm towards its master.

The dull red pinpricks glow in recognition, in anticipation.

Alma clenched her hands. She felt her nails digging into her palm. She felt the skin break, and blood began to trickle down, a slow and solemn crimson rain descending from her white-knuckled fists.

A soft inhale.

“Difa.”
code by @Nano
 
Nyctiel
The Blindsided
Anna Maria Schwarzschild
Wal y' S lash Z ne, N W YO K CIT
A scorching sensation of irritable suffering and utter annihilation of the self marked the rapture of the purposeful woman who found herself at the edge of the bright new world. Perception of time, far engulfed by the amalgamation of darkness and false illumination, the abyss from whence it came was now but a distant memory unfounded by the very foundation of the forsaken Eden. The brief moment of pain touched and imbued the lady with a sense of clarity where simplicity were designed by its own complex nature. The void had taken her, undoing Regenesis's schemes and trading one purgatory for another. The labyrinth of one's greatest fear had materialized itself as a waterborne paradise, bending the very fabric of reality to its own ravenous will - conjuring forth the grandeurs of its victim's wishful delusions. In this watery grave of lost intentions, the urgency of her purpose eluded her and was held hostage of her own conception. The angelic agent had been swallowed by this tranquil paradise. Yet, it was this sudden disquiet serenity that beckoned her utmost attention to the grotesque transition of pain and pleasure.

A familiar voice, far long estranged but not forgotten, reached out to her. Its terrifying cadence brought about a certain high in her, stimulating her senses as she came to. Fair blonde eyelashes batting its way past oblivion to greet their esteemed guest. Glimmering sapphires unveiled its glorious sparkles against the contrasting light that marked the silhouette of a tall gentleman that had closed their distance long before she recognized such intentions. An impulsive hand had taken her hostage, wrestling for her commensurate affection as much as it bled into her own consciousness. Prussian feldblau, complemented by ornate golden epaulettes of a distinguished serviceman, was accompanied by the refined texture of their ceremonial sash. The familiar colors plugged its talons deep within the membranes of her memories, clawing gradually until it finally yanked the distinction from her memories with violent intentions. The Maiden withdrew herself, recoiling from the bleeding memory, as she took into sight of the one and only man who was capable of injuring her consciousness like so. Her one true Officer.

Albrecht von Heeringen, her ordained liberator and beloved oppressor. The Officer from the North that stole her southern heart with ease. The familiarity of the cool wooden floorings came back to her, as she ruminated the still picture of the Officer and the Maiden taking their time to count the crystalized edges of the chandeliers before them. Summer days were long, so too were the times spent where the two would often find themselves indulging in the well-established routine of laying on the fresh oaken floor together to seek refuge from the heat. The indecent endeavor was conjured by none other than the Maiden herself, until it finally became a constant ritual of the curious Officer. The blissful memory was well-received, at least within the Maiden's heart. The times where they would frequent markets and fairs together were well-embedded within the Maiden's cherished thoughts. Yet the very word that the Officer had confided within her now was as strange as the way she would express herself. Searching within her memories, she could not find an instance where he would bestow her such a doting term. Liebchen, as he had titled her, was as detrimental to her state of sanity as she would call him her 'Albie'.

The lady found herself taken aback by her interests and familiarity, while the words that uttered from Albrecht managed to somehow taken a hold of her desperation. A desperation that she could not make sense of, as if her own regrets were already manifested long before - akin to that of a known catastrophe that she could not place in a place in time that she was not privy to. Alas, the toils of six long months had long imprisoned her, as she bursted into tears from the amalgamation of longing. Has he always been this doting on her? She questioned, as if they were still strangers, despite their closeness.

"Albie..." She taken on the nickname that she had long repressed to only herself and never once disclosed to the same man at any given point in time, and finally let her welling eyes explain her posture. Throwing her arms over his broad shoulders, she gave in to the temptation and found comfort in his robust chest. He surrounded her, beckoning the maiden to take refuge in his embrace. The prim and proper maiden had transformed into a helpless, indecent lady who saw it fit to display the tantrums of her affections in public, neverminding the passerbys that would care to take heed of her predicament. She missed him so, and deservingly committed to the act that would surely cost all but her earnest yearning. In this modern world, the two relics of a bygone era had nothing else to lose but time to solidify their declaration of love. At least, that was the bottled sentiments that the Maiden would let herself to believe. Yet, in the embrace of her Albie, his sturdy physique felt empty. Cold, like the solemn steel that was often sheathed by his side. Yearning for more, her gloved hand fetched his affection with haste, as her pelvic curtains shimmered its distance against the Officer's abdomen. She wished to feel his touch, his warmth. Yet the more she buried herself in his touch, the colder she felt. Perhaps it had been too long since she was crowned with his stern aura, she reasoned, alike that of the warmth she had grown accustomed to with her newfound associates.

Associates, she finally came to, reminiscing the faceless icons that stained her heart with undaunted smiles and comedic banter. Yet, she could not associate the familiarity with anything more than a blank memory with those that surely existed in sentiments but not in shape. As she tried to reason with the faceless figures that managed to recall her amnesia, the light finally dissipated with Albrecht's visage. His grotesque flesh were absent of light, robbed of its cold glances. She took a brief gander all around and found others much the same. A paradise of blind personnel. What else can be said but to accept the inevitable irony of her blind love for the Prussian Officer. As the oddly beautiful environment began to take shape around her, the agent felt a disturbance in her guts - spilling the uneasiness of a far-removed entity in a world that should not be. Yet, the familiarity of skinship tempted her so, overwhelming all reasonable aspect of a sane human. But it mattered little for the woman, for she had long found her home - here in Wally's Splash Zone with Albie. The very words of the location distorted as she thought of it, despite her acceptance of her livelihood here for the past - the hazy memory failed her, as she could not place how long she had resided here with Albie. The smell of freshly boiled hotdogs beckoned her attention, just as Albie brought on the matter of the Yank's traditions. A conversation about the barbaric customs of the Yanks, with whom she shared from a time she did not recall, quickly made its mark.

"Yes. The Yanks are indeed strange. Like..." She softly spoke in reply to Albrecht's remarks.

"Hot Dogs. Yankee. Wurst." She muttered to herself quietly this time. Perhaps she was already made aware of the Yankee's odd naming convention and entertainments alongside her Albie. Yet, it did not feel the same placing the same sentiment to his expression. Perhaps it was someone else, someone shorter and less stern to make such a claim, she reminisced with a confused look, before shelving the burden of uncovering the mystery.

The last time Anna and Albrecht found themselves abroad was at the International Exhibition in London. As she dwelled on the memory, the numbers began to plague her mind. Eighteen, the migraine began its work, filling her head with nonsensical voices of familiar personnel that she could not remember. Materializing before her very own eyes were the final numbers - sixty-two. The numbers, what do they mean? Please stop, she painfully begged for the numbers to cease its incessant spiral before her very own vision. Yet, before she could comprehend the numbers playing in her head like a broken record, she looked to her Albie again to regain her sanity. He was her sacred pillar of refuge, the very core of her prolonged existence. She has yet to answer him proper, thought the woman, as she retracted her arms and pushed against his chest with a flushed expression.

"It seems that you have made a schoolgirl out of me again, Albie. My mind is not straight." Having broke away from his embrace, she let out a huge sigh, while trying to wipe away her tears. "Your crude behaviours does not befit a gentleman of your station. I'll have you know that I am quite fragile, lest ... y-you might break me." The last words dissipated into thin air, as her voice receded. Hiding her embarassed expressions beneath the stray strands of her unkempt bangs, Anna huffed and puffed for air. Albrecht was the same with his deliberation, yet different in his intimacy. Has he grown so accustomed to the Yank's customs? She thought to herself. It would come to reason that he would be absent of his optics, as such was the norm of their foreign land. From another perspective, perhaps this world was more beautiful without the discerning discrimination of one's eyes. The grievous subject tempted the woman, for she was on the verge of wishing to embrace such traditions, if it meant that she would be able to remain by Albrecht's side.

Shaking her head back and forth, she finally folded her arms with a pout. It was then, she found herself rappeled back into his grasp. Granted a gentle peck from his affectionate lips, the lacing of her gloved hand failed to repel his initiative. Frozen with the sudden act of intimate touch that surely gratified her yearnings, Anna's cheeks were as ripe as the Hungarian orchards in late spring.

"You, sir, are not to my liking! Not even the courtesy of permission, Herr Heeringen!" She declared, brushing her arms together in a shy but contradicting manner. She had been robbed of her confidence, like many times before with Albrecht in the same breathing space. Yet, this was the time that she felt the most true to her child-like manner, absent of the prim and proper facade that she donned for others. It was then, a dolphin broke the truce of their segregated touch. His chuckle suited her wishes, but not quite the same as her expectations. However, she was quite fond of his suppressed laughter, even if a part of her was cautioning its peculiar nature - far removed from the ideal image of how a Prussian officer would behave. As she uttered his family name, it dawned on her that she had always addressed him as Herr Heeringen, never short of her courtesy as much as he would address her as Frau Schwarzchild. But these developments were long stowed as the numerous distractions around them aided the foggy contemplation of her own mind.

Distracted by the nearby stalls, it called to Anna, as she looked up to her Albie with a reconciling expression. "I have heard of dyed cottons, strung by the sinews of sugar by masters of their crafts. Your affections may be taken for consideration, that is, if you would call yourself to task with indulging my sweet tastes." The cunning lady bartered, issuing her decree to her beloved officer. "Perhaps then, you will be rewarded with a sweeter taste." She added with a playful smile.

Thunderous noises caught her mind, as she tried to remember when she had learnt of the cotton candies' nature. The more she tried, the more hazy the memory became. While she was sure that she had been educated on the matter not so long ago, she could not bring about the name of the one who had taught her so. It only stood to reason that it was Albie that was responsible for exposing her to the Americana culture. Speculated to be her very reason to remain here at Wally's Splash Zone with Albrecht forever, as they continue to learn all there was to know about their home. It was not quite right, she calmed herself, as the redundant mentions of hotdogs and cotton candies only served to further cement the fact that she was experiencing a deja vu not of her own experience. The naming conventions of Yankee snacks, the exponentially tumultuous reckoning of seeing her Albie despite their long-standing life together, and her extraordinary presence in a world of eyeless personnel. She felt alone and confused, against the contemporary norms expected of her existence here with her husband. Given their close intimacy, by the traditions of their time, it only made sense they were more than lovers. Yet, as she shifted fingers to confirm her position within his heart, she failed to locate a proper sign of their matrimonial bond. She did not possess a ring. The thought conjured forth her paranoia and wrath, as she looked to Albrecht's hands to reassure herself. But before she could do so, she convinced herself that it was her usual tendency to give into the habit of defying her own mind. This was real, she reminded herself, and it would benefit her to embrace her beloved Albie.

Laying a tender hand on his chest, Anna let out a heavy sigh. "It's best that I freshen up, while you go about your procurement, my dear Albie." Even now, as she uttered her nickname for him, the uncomforting sensation of the syllables held a tight grip on her entire self. But the woman was ready to defy all to safeguard this very moment. 'I love you' - the three simple words that she wished to say then and there, but did not came to pass. "I won't be long." She reassured him, but could not help but to feel guilty, as her delivery was as empty as her insincere reluctance with her Albrecht.

As she made her way towards the restrooms to take a gander at her visage, she felt a certain tug upon her waist-sash. The friction had made it hard to ignore what she had in her possession, of which did not necessitate an inquiry prior among the many distractions between her and her Albie. Casting aside the primary task of adjusting her makeup, she shifted her attention towards the blissfully mysterious item. Lodging her fingers therein, she withdrew a miniature leather-backed journal that she did not recall procuring. Has it always been with her? She questioned, turning the pages to investigate further. It was then, she stumbled upon her own handwriting, with simplified caricatures of certain individuals that she has already met with their corresponding names labeled beside the designs. Her eyes widened, shaken to her core, as the notebook brought more questions than it did answers. The winding noises crept upon her again, bringing great discomfort for the petrified lady, as she tried to reconcile with its painfully forthright effects upon her unsuspecting presence in this unknown realm. It sufficed her curiosities, but waned of rightful suspicions. Armed with queries, Anna took a deep breath as the glimmering shades of her fair irises leased a sense of dreadful determination.

Something was afoot - sinister and vile. In this eyeless world, perhaps she was the odd one out. The aberration of her own making. Examining her own reflection before the mirror that was free of waterspots, a hand was raised to bear the thought of her convoluted amnesia.

"Eine perfekte Welt. (A perfect world.)" She muttered to herself in her native tongue.

One day of experience is one year of study. An eerie voice echoed the back of Anna's mind, causing her to recoil and take a step back. Her expression filled with terror, as she now stood before a damsel captured in her own image while struggling to recall the feminine voice that said those very lines to her.



Zedalith Zedalith
Code by Serobliss
 



Mellor.jpg
Fifth.jpeg

The Other Duo

Mellor Akir~
~Fifth Avenue

Mell stood and was ready to square up with the beast. He wasn’t the most offensive combatant and his ability level was probably only about 10% right now, but that wasn’t going to stop him from doing what needed to be done. As the creature took a step toward them, Mell’s gaze was snatched away from the aberration to something far, far, far more positive. Ilia and Elyn had arrived. As soon as he saw them, a smile burst on his face and he immediately dropped to his knees. Seeing them made him feel like he could drop his guard; like he could take it easy for a second; like he could rest - he knew they could handle it from here. His job was simply to protect Fifth and he had done that. He looked over his shoulder at the state Fifth was in. On second thought, maybe he could have done a better job. But, at least, Fifth was alive. The berating on his performance would come later - it didn’t look very good as a protector if the one left in your charge ended up looking the way Fifth did. He shook off the self-chiding thoughts and refocused on the fight.

It hadn’t been obvious before, but Fifth was, on some level, still coherent. He looked…manageable. Couldn’t be expected to help much until he could pull himself together, but he didn’t look to be in imminent mortal peril anymore. His bleeding had slowed to a trickle and although his burns were still fresh, they didn’t seem too concerning. Flames still ate away at his hair, but honestly it added character and some much needed color to Fifth.


After catching his breath for a while, and not having to open up any new portals, Mell finally had regained enough brain capacity to begin closing portals and not accidentally close the wrong one - he’d refrained from doing it up until now because his mind was so hazy he may have accidentally closed the light portal and would have been too tired to open it back up. That would easily have been the worst case scenario. One by one - starting with the furthest one, he started closing the portals and with each one that shut, he felt his energy seeping back into him. It felt like a cold drink of water after a trek through the desert; like taking off your shoes after a 12-hour shift, like…Focus Mellor! He snapped himself back into reality, snatching himself away from the blissful sensation of actually being able to feel life in his body again. The fight’s not over yet. We don’t know that this thing will just give up.

For the entire duration of the fight, Mell watched carefully, looking to see if there was going to be a spot where the others needed him. However, for most of it, he was just smiling with pride. Pride in the fact that he got to be on the same team as such amazing agents. He never once doubted that the two of them could pull the win together and he also figured that they’d want to give him a chance to catch his breath, so he took the opportunity given to him and just watched the two of them dominate.

The proud look on Mell’s face quickly changed to one of concern as he saw the creature bubbling up, and then switch to panic as the bubbles exploded in a spray of acid. Instinctively, he darted toward Fifth, putting himself between the spray of acid and Fifth. While he wanted to cover the kid, he also didn’t want to get melted away in doing so. He knew he could teleport himself out of the way in time - if only there was a way he could teleport two people without having to waste time with creating two portals. The thought passed through his mind in a hair of a second, knowing that he didn’t have the time to get lost in wishful thinking. His strength had returned but his depth perception was still off from the dizziness but he was sure he could handle at least this much. He opened the exit portal somewhere off to the side, not really caring where and then opened one right in front of him and Fifth so the portals would suck the acid away, leaving them unscathed. Unfortunately, creating the exit portal made him slightly late in creating the entry portal and so a small spritz of acid made it through and unto his chest. Below him, Fifth gave a half-hearted thumbs up as thanks.


The acid burned through his shirt like water through a paper towel and began sizzling against his skin. “Holy….Son of a…Mother of…” Mell did nut cuss. It never sat right on his tongue, and he also never really felt the need to. After all, he believed that there was nothing that couldn’t be conveyed with the words he used everyday anyway. Right now was different, though. This was one situation where he very much felt the need. What held him back now was not the absence of a need but the fact that he couldn’t figure out what series of cusses best represented the pain he was feeling and so he tried to throw them all into one but that, too, failed. He resigned to a deep, guttural groan, clenching his hands into fists until his knuckles whitened.

Mell’s breathing was heavy and labored as he tried to keep the pain quiet but it was getting harder and harder to do. That is, until, Ilia fresh rain poured on him and rinsed the acid off, what was left of his shirt sticking to him a little bit from the wetness. His slowly brought his breathing under control, taking long, deep breaths until his breathing leveled out. By the time he was back to feeling like himself, he opened his eyes and Ilia was standing there, the aberration nothing more than a memory and some scars now. He took note of Elyn on the floor and smirked - that was one person that pushed herself as hard as he pushed himself and he could respect that. He looked back up at Ilia, finding it within himself to chuckle at Ilia’s remark. “Of course he’s alive, who do you think you have looking after him?” he teased.

At their Feet, Fifth grumbled something incoherent before slapping Ilia’s hand away. Grunting, he laboriously pushed himself up, teetering like he was about to fall over when a wave of nausea hit him at the sudden movement. He winced when he put weight on his bum leg and leaned against the coaster tracks.


“Yep, fan-fucking-tastic team, celebratory Sushi later?” Fifth mumbled. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket, realized his lighter was still somewhere in the inferno upstairs, and decided to light it with his still flaming hair. Taking a long drag, he poked at his bad leg, grunted, and hopped up onto the coaster tracks to sit.

“Okay, problem: Leg’s fucked, knee popped sideways,” He said, casually, “Sounds bad, but easy to fix. You, Scotty,” he pointed at Mell, “Do me a solid and pop it back so we can haul ass fore’ the fire department shows.”

At the request, there was a glint in Mellor's eyes that bordered of mischievous - unusual for Mellor. When you spend half your life bungee jumping and skydiving, things tend to pop and you have to learn to un-pop them. Injuries caused due to being reckless were Mell's specialty. "It's Mellor, by the way," he added as he got down on a knee and stretched Fifth's leg out, ignoring the groans that understandably came with having half your leg disconnected. He found the knee joint and with one hand held it steady and, with the other quickly jammed it back into place. Fifth tried to play it tough, but no matter how many times it happened to him, it really fucking hurt. He stood up and dusted off his hands. "There. Good as new." He then looked over his shoulder to Ilia. "Where to, boss? Back to the hotel? Call it a day?"


Mentions: Ilia ( Zedalith Zedalith ), Elyn ( lyn. lyn. )
Written with:
Fifth ( Togy Togy )
 
Ilia Drubich
Sanity’s Edge
Luke’s Holy Journey
Excited
interactions

Togy Togy Wyll Wyll lyn. lyn.

Cold trickles down the base of his neck and into his spine, a chill that treks through his nerves and compels his body into rapt attention. His fingers clasp within the core of his palm, nails digging deep enough to leave soft red clefts into the fat of the grasp. His fist opens and clenches at his side, eyes scanning the walls for something they could not see.

This place was a veritable den of sin, and the stench of it stained the core of the Earth; in his four years of service, he gained a pre-eminent reflex. An innate muscle honed after traversing many such places - a sixth sense. A battle was won, yet the compulsion did not wane, instead, it only grew stronger, more ravenous. It bit at his ankles, prodded at his shoulders, beseeching him for its attention.

Cerulean eyes traced over a ruddy face, wet blood still bespeckling Fifth's visage like a cheetah's fur. Prey proved to be a predator, but the cost was steep. Even Ilia knew the man was in no condition to continue forward - despite Ilia's insinuation otherwise, Fifth had his uses, if he were not so damaged.

"You did good Mellor. Very good," he returns reflexively and the words attenuate into the surrounding lair. Ilia's brows furrow while his focus still lingers; his thoughts loop back to Angela, as they always do. Recipient not in range - the words echo in his head. Mellor received a message not long ago, so why did it fail now? Something was amiss and Ilia would be vexed until the source of his agitation was brought into the light.

Bright red burns tarnish his body, haphazardly blemishing his complexion. It chars deeper in some areas than others leaving craters of diverging depths tunneling into the surface of his form. They were phantoms of a bested devil and it marks Elyn in much the same way. The girl was reckless, a quality that occasionally sent them careening into danger. As quick as an idea caught her mind, she'd be pulled toward it like a bloodhound on a leash. On this occasion, it proved useful - but that was not always the case. Her lack of restraint can result in untimely deaths, missions failed, and hours subtracted. "Ready to move on?" he asks the girl, cautious, short, like a clipped fuse.

The utterance of the word, "boss," is honey on Mellor's tongue. He shoots the tan man a predatory glance, his eyes glowing like retroreflective sheeting in the fog of night. "I'm glad someone is beginning to respect what I do for them here," he commends, a voice loud enough to fill his head. "The day is young, Mellor. The greatest game awaits us and we must be quick on their tail! There are hours still unearned."

Twisting tunnels await the heft of their step, maws salivating at the prospect of their meal willfully digging deeper. Ilia is the first to move forward, ushered onward with an urgency that pinched at his nerves. His head turns to face his companions, his sidelong glance falling first onto Elyn. "Can't you help Filth walk?" he groans as if the query brought him physical pain to speak. Exhaustion beat at Mellor's back, and Elyn was Elyn, a workhorse without restraint. Better that they make use of that quality while she still breathed than to go without.

"Let's check in on Nyctiel's lackeys. Lend them a hand if they're behind. Patch things together if they've been wrested apart."
 
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The Witch of Rhys
alma rhys
location
Wally's Secret Cove
tags
Naomi ( Klown Klown ), Nick ( Kovacs Kovacs ), Qing-Yi ( ERode ERode )

“Caerwyn!”

There is recognition in the way the tarnished knight raises its head, arcing it away from its prey to its master. A dim glow emits from two small pinpricks of light behind its rusted visor, as it awaits the command.

“...Difa.”

There is a pause. Beyond the wailing of the Whisperer beneath it, and the young doll’s voice bouncing along the bleached cavern walls, all is still, silent.

Caerwyn suddenly rises to its feet, stomping onto the aberrant’s chest to keep it pinned.

“Yn ôl eich ewyllys,” Scorched gauntlets reach up, clasping the equally-scorched helm. A curtain of inky black mist sifts from the cracked seams as the helm is twisted, gently, then slowly raised. There is no head beneath the helm—perhaps expected of a construct created by the powers of the Seraphim—but a ghastly, swirling mass of mist that vaguely resembles a human head turns to its unfortunate prey.

“...Fy arglwydd.”

An explosion of swirling black mist flies around the room, casting the vision of all its residents in total darkness. A coalescence of this mist centered just above the rusted knight’s head, pooling into a large mass resembling that of a giant wolf’s head. Wispy tendrils of ashen smoke envelop the head, thrashing wildly at nothing in particular, as red beads look down upon its prey with anticipation.

The Whisperer wails, cries, claws at the ground beneath it, hoping to find an escape from its newfound predator. The tendrils find their mark; her limbs are tightly bound by the mist and she is raised, level with a void-black maw containing rows of infinite, shifting teeth. One last yelp and the head is devoured. Bite by bite, piece by piece, Caerwyn consumes the aberrant, fitting a creature that was originally twice its size within the small confines of its armor.

No trace is left of it. Any undead that once stood in opposition to the Seraphim’s forces now lie as heaps on the ground, returned to lifeless husks.

The mist shrinks, as Caerwyn replaces its helm. And with a final twist, the mist is once again sealed within the knight. It approaches its charge and kneels before her, having dutifully carried out its command.

“Yr ydych wedi gwneud yn dda, Caerwyn.” The witch places a hand upon her knight’s shoulder, in praise of a job well done. “Now then. Let us reconvene with Miss Angela and Miss Anna. We should report back to Team Glaciel that our aberrant is dispa—”

Goosebumps boil outward from frayed skin. Something primal awakens in Alma's mind, a thrashing brute beating against the bone of their skull from the inside out. It travels through their soles and into their spine, an uneasy presence that leaves a chill lingering at the tips of their fingers. The room falls silent, save for the noise of their pained breathing. The new presence makes the whisperer seem like a guppy compared to that of a great white shark. Alma is the first to sense it, nerves still whetted from the throes of battle. Yet her allies seemed complacent with their victory, novices - not yet as honed as she. She sees it through the fog of battle, bright teeth gleaming in the darkness of the passage in which it lurked.

An opportunistic beast that cares not for its allies, it waited, eager for the moment that the agents dropped their guard and thought the battle won. It was then that they'd be at ease, then when the agents would be the most vulnerable. So it slept - fangs stretched wide over grafted skin. It looks to Naomi, wounded, helpless. It looks to Nicholas, carefree, the rush of a won battle dulling his senses. Then, it makes its move.

Faster than a hummingbird's wingbeat, it lurches, thick black robes wrapping around its form in its haste. It whips over Naomi's head like a cloudy night sky, with a smile as bright as the pale moon. A clawed hand teeters forward, two fingers poised to run through his neck and cleave that bright shock of orange hair from Nick's neck.

Time seemed to almost halt for the young witch, as she saw two companions—no, two Agents—in mortal danger. A mortal danger which, to an Agent, wasn’t nearly as mortal as it would be to an average citizen. Losing the two of them would not affect the mission. They had shown very little prowess in combat, and against such a foe, fewer distractions would be best. She just needs to order Caerwyn to kill the beast, and the Seraphim will take care of the rest.

But Mr. Nicholas is new.

Only a month of experience with his belt. And given his display of combat skills in this encounter, not the kind of experience that would net him many high-tier aberrants. In other words, his time was dwindling. And death was a hefty price to pay.

And Naomi—Miss Naomi.

Not as new, and certainly not at a shortage of hours. She has managed to make hunting lower tiers quite profitable for herself within her past ten months of Agenthood. She could afford a death, especially with the A-tier they defeated canceling out the hours lost. But that wasn’t why Alma now found herself interposed between herself and that fate-sealing clawed hand.

“Believe in me. Believe in us. We will not let you die.”

“Caerwyn!” She looks to him, out of the corner of her eyes. The command is silent; words need not be exchanged when an act says it all. It gives a solemn nod and parries the strike aimed at Nick.

Alma, knightless, is not as lucky.

His hand pierces the center of her ribcage, shattering her sternum into a thousand pieces. Explosive shards of bone pierce her lungs, rip through her organs, and coat her innards with liberated blood. It appears confused for a moment, its mouth forming a straight line on its eyeless face. Then, the realization of what it struck found him. Its body rocks back in forth, chest heaving as laughter fills the walls of the room. It plants a foot for leverage on her stomach and rips his hand free from the girl's chest. Blood has nowhere else to go but out, and it spews from the freshly opened wound in a deluge of warm crimson.

A stark-white suit, bathed in crimson. Snow-white hair, now dyed with its owner’s own lifeblood. Eyes filled with fear, pain, maybe a twinge of regret as they look up to Naomi.

“I-it… Hurts… I f-forg–ot… How much… It hu–rts…”

Her breath is raspy, her chest convulses every time it tries to bring in fresh oxygen. Blood chokes her throat and must promptly be ejected.

“I-I’m… S-s-sorr–y…” The words can hardly escape her vermillion lips, as her cloudy eyes moisten with the sting of tears. A hand stretches out meaninglessly towards her, struggling to stay in the air.

“I’m… So…Sor…ry…” The last lungful of air leaves her breath, as her arm falls limp onto the ground. The witch, crestfallen, is dead.

A second wingbeat passes and with it, a new danger. It turned to the helpless Naomi, legs coiling into the inflexible floor hard enough to leave footprints before springing towards her. Flesh meets metal and the edges of its claws collide with a blade, sending sparks reeling in all directions. A second strike is parried and its arm flings into the air. The beast recoils, an uneasy expression falling over its features. It did not expect a hard battle and the steely knight was presenting an unprecedented threat. It makes one more attempt to strike, teeth grit and arms pulled back. Metal clanks as resolve shatters, and Caerwyn's metal plating with it. A shape in the fist of the creature carves through his helmet and leaves it half-flattened.

Caerwyn falls onto its knees, its blade hanging limply alongside its arm. Bits, pieces, and cracks start to sift away into rusted dust, as the knight loses all strength to fight.

“Sir… Nicholas…” Its voice is weak, distorted. The wind can hardly carry its discordant whispers. “Your strength… Is faltering… But your bravery… Is worthy…”

Using the last of its strength, it leaves its blade at Nick’s feet. Its hand then disintegrates away into ash.

“I hereby, with the limited authority placed in me… do dub thee… for the remainder of this mission… Ser Nicholas Neale-St. James… Knight of House Rhys…. Your duty is to take up my blade, and protect Lady Naomi and my liege’s corpse… You are to triumph… Where I have failed…”


A caved-in helmet turns in his direction, a soft glow behind the red pinpricks of light behind a crushed visor. “My liege… Saw my potential, once… Long ago…” Raising its decaying arm towards its newly appointed knight, its voice seems to take an almost warm, audible smile. “I see… Doubtless potential within you… May it shine now… And eternally evermore…”

And thus, with a gentle gust of wind, the knight was no more. Scattered into the wind, until there was no trace left.

Light smolders outwards from the aberration’s chest, piercing the fog of death left behind by the fallen knight. The light scatters and refracts along the mist left in the wake of the knight’s parting words - a protective casing so that the brunt of the heat does not sear the skin of his allies. Nyctiel’s words descend into the minds of their agents, clear and distinct despite the buzzing radiance of the light’s intensity: “Find strength in darkness, no sight, no plea. Obstacles dot the surface of the cavern, erected pillars of earth, tables, and reclining beach chairs - cover, to tuck away from the creature's burning radiance. A split-second decision is required, the beast’s celerity left little time for hesitation.
code by @Nano
 





ARC 1




AURS AURS

"PERFECT SHOT! 100 POINTS!" it screeched out in a machine whirr, voice nasal and abrasive. It was a clawing and grating racket, the noise startlingly clear amidst the backdrop of clamoring voices. It carved through the room's din like a trained blade; the words' bite felt like ice cubes dropped over her neck on a hot day. A squirrel cheered on the LED screen in tune, rearing on its hind legs and clapping their paws together. The squirrel's face was set forward at Angela with a twitching nose and eyeless visage, mouth curled in a knowing smirk. A noose wrapped around her neck - yet she did not know it, and the squirrel stood attentively at the gallows.

Birthday? His head tilted on his neck, smile querying and too small for his face. "Christmas. We celebrate every year, you think I'd forget the day I was born?" his answer is short, instant, eyeless face snapping towards her in appraisal. Gail seemed much taller for a moment, a giant gazing over her and blocking out the roar of the crowd and games. He pauses for a blip in time, as if he is looking for something in her face, then he shrinks - satisfied. Gail grips a new ball in his hand, fingers rolling over the surface in his palm.

"Thanks for enduring this for me. You're always the savior, always putting yourself first," the words seemed genuine, yet there was a garnish of mockery that she could not ignore. The ball slipped from his hand and into the gutter.

"Nice try! You'll get 'em next time!" the squirrel cried, nose glued to the ball as it rolled backward.

"You'll get ‘em next time!" it repeated, louder now, voice rocking the foundation of the building.

"You'll get ‘em next time!" the machine's voice is deafening, eating away at her senses, intruding into the core of her skull and engraving its nest at her center.

"You'll get ‘em next time!" a vision stole her senses, images of screeching tires flooded her brain, fire, and broken glass. An arm is outstretched towards her that has been marred by blood - a ginger head of hair is set ablaze in a spark of flame. She sees herself in the air, floating listlessly, and for a short moment - the ground becomes her sky.

She sees Gail, bloodied and beaten in some alleyway, his corpse zipped up with a label that read, "John Doe" sewn into its center. Unremarkable, unimportant, just another body to feed to the city. She sees a million realities of what could have been: he wears a suit and tie, a newly appointed CEO. He adorns a tank top stained by grease, toiling over the hood of a car. She sees him happy, not the pacifying smile he wore when she worried, but a genuine one, surrounded by children and a faceless wife. Then she sees him again, this time in the form of an empty coffin, entombed beyond the Earth's crest. She is brought back to her reality, the one where she failed - the one where she did not try hard enough.

"Proud of me? Why? Today is your day! Don't think about me," Gail grounds her, a hand on her shoulder bringing her back into the moment. A tide of bliss floods into her brain, a crushing torrent of dopamine that she must erect barriers to keep back. It overflows, crashing and intermingling with brewing confoundment. Gail's smile looks misplaced on his face, an ugly, gnashing beast, that dies before it finds the place his eyes should be. Empty voids lie in wait below the brow, pulling in all of her doubt and worry. His eyebrows scrunch together in empathy, doting over her like she were a child hiding behind her mother's skirt.

"Did you know the cartoonist who founded the animation studio this place is based on was also a priest?" he asks, stepping away and leaning back against the wall, arms guarding his sides. He wears a mask of condescension that the true Gail never donned. He was looking down at her, as if she were a mouse caught in a trap, pointlessly struggling in its last moments.

"I don't expect you to know. It's not exactly a secret the owners let slip easily." The ball rolls back to him and he ambles over to hold it in his grasp, fingers twitching uneasily as he clasps it in his mitt. "He was like me. He heard things others didn't." The ball soars from his grasp into the basket and the voice rings out with renewed vigor, "200 POINTS, HIGH SCORE!!!"

Gail shuts his eyes and lets unabated joy flood his lungs, unleashing maddening laughter that rebounds off the walls and irrigates her eardrums with ecstasy. "Some say he was buried with his last works, somewhere in a tomb hidden in the park. And that's why the owners, with all their money, decided to build an amusement park here of all places. Ridiculous!" he shakes his head as if he finds the mere thought offensive. It is as if the thing is gloating, speaking its thoughts senselessly into the air because it knows its game of “basketball” has already been won.

A hand lifts to his mouth and he coughs, batting his prior words away as if they were never uttered. "Never mind that - this day is about us. About our friendship," he motions towards the balls at her side.

"It's your turn. You only get one more after this - so make it count," he turns his chin upwards to their score. 250 - 100. Two more balls to go.


Pilgrim59 Pilgrim59

Decay, like the dampness of a basement after a rainstorm, wet soil, and decaying leaves. It's a scent that was muted until she came closer to him, stale, earthy, with the sharpness of something old and forgotten. It clings to the parts of her that collide with his, scribing the signature of the interaction into the fabric of her clothes.

The sallow face lingers at her back, tracing over her form as she makes her exit. His lips curl upward, but the gesture looks misplaced on his face. "Very well, with such excellent directives, I will have no trouble procuring such a delicacy!" he cries at her back, bringing his hands to wrap around his mouth so that his voice might project through the dying clamor of the surrounding masses.

The crowd’s voices diminish as she gains distance and their necks all twist in tandem to dissect her form through the throng. Even the playful chirpings of the aquatic animals fall silent. The sound of a grumbling vacuum steals the ambiance - hungry, eager to consume the world that she left behind. Air swells in her absence, and as she gains a greater distance, the world behind her crumbles into nothingness. Clay faces decorating the crowd’s visages cave in, revealing a quiet emptiness as their bodies crack and return to dust. Albrecht was reduced into the same vacuum, swallowed up by a vast darkness that collapsed the sky.

Raindrops cascade over the roof of the restroom without warning. Heavy beads of water beat against the concrete, rocking the very foundation of the room in which she stood. A detachment occurs as her gaze lingers over that of her reflection, like she's looking back at a recording, rather than a refraction of her image. The eyes in the mirror sink into their own skull - then, the new vacancy was scrubbed over at the sides by frayed flesh.

It only just occurs that the sound that assaulted her eardrums was not rain, but gunfire. Explosive shrapnel rocked the ground some distance away, powerful enough to shake the doors of the stalls behind her. Drywall flings outward from the walls and the roof from the force of it, sullying the ground beneath her feet. Holes tatter her form in the mirror, shredded cloth hanging off of her gaping wounds like curtains. Her arm is removed at the elbow and raised at the shoulder while the sinews hang limply around her arm. The striations of which looked like severed strings from a marionette. It steps forward, forehead pressed against the glass on the other side.

A fist beats at the bathroom door, and on the other side, countless feet clad in heavy boots march in her direction. Soldiers. The end of a gun slams against the threshold, sending splinters of wood flailing on the opposite side. It strikes again, and again until there's a hole the size of a human face in the door frame. Beyond that hole, there lies an image of her home in ruin, with a fire as tall as the sky blazing furiously over their estate.

Curtains fall, and with a snap, she is returned to the present moment. Maddening knocks reduce to a gentle tapping at the door, the floor and walls return to their untarnished state, and the reflection in the mirror is her own. "Anna!” the voice exclaims on the other end of the restroom door, now recognizable as Albrecht. It is unlike him, more frantic, more hurried. On the other side, he treasures her desired delicacy with a gentle clasp, foamy sugar spilling over the sides of the cup like a raincloud. His worry bled into the raps at the door, uncertainty lacing the stilly volume. “Can you confirm your whereabouts? I am ready to present to you the delicacy that you have requested!

It has an interesting tang. I cannot say if I enjoy it myself. Perhaps it tastes better with the right company,” he coos. A tiny shred of the substance is torn from the container and brought to his lips. He rolls the partition in his mouth tentatively, before swallowing with an audible gulp. “When you are ready, what say you that we abscond elsewhere? I saw an interesting sight on my venture. A room filled with lights and noises, the likes of which I have never seen. I believe they called it an “Arcade?” He tests the name of the place on his tongue.



WORLD WITHOUT EYES
 
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Elyn remained on her knees, inattentive to those around her as she exhaled heated smoke. This was why she only drew energy from hits, the side effects of others were never worth it. Elyn could have smacked that aberration to death on those concussion bombs alone if it weren’t for that acid. Adrenaline was what she needed in that moment, and absorbing it had helped her.

Though the heat in her throat was more bearable, she couldn’t fight back the coughs. They arrived in regular intervals, and Elyn had a feeling it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
Elyn finally turned to the group at Ilias words, just barely catching the end of the sentence. Her eyes flashed over to Mell, and, oh, right, they weren’t done.

She let out a few more hacks for good measure before forcing herself onto her feet. Strangely enough, it seemed to help her with her oncoming headache. Elyn took a quick assessment of herself. Other than the coughing, she was fine. She still felt some energy leftover from the concussion bombs drumming under her skin, and the two left in her pockets. She could still fight.

Elyn coughed in response to Ilia’s question. She’d glare if she cared enough to. Instead, she made her way over to Fifth, eyeing the lit paper in the man’s hand. For a moment, she’s reminded of Joel. The harsh smoke he had left lingering in the lobby before there was an influx of complaints, so he stuck with drinking instead. Elyn didn’t mind the smell then. Now, it only serves as a reminder of the smoke stuck in her lungs.

She reached over and slipped the cigarette out of Fifths fingers, dropping it to the floor and stubbing it out with her shoe.

“No more smoke.” She spoke, there was no scratch in her voice like she expected, her need to cough fading till she closed her mouth and the need rose again.
Reigning it in, she grabbed Fifths arm and put it over her shoulders, her grip tight, intending to walk side-by-side with him. It was not the best choice, but the last thing Elyn wanted to do was carry him, and she’s confident Fifth feels the same.

Her want for this experience to be over hadn’t changed, fighting aberrations was nasty work. From her luck, Elyn’s hope that Nyctiel was finished was little, “Do you know where they are?” she asked, looking towards Ilia, taking a few experimental steps forward.







glauciel



elyn













♡coded by uxie♡
 
























angie yeon ;








































































































































































































































































































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The ball she threw slots itself into a technicolor array on a rusted slide tray. The machines sing their hollow melodies, tin voices spewing empty victories.

There's the stale sweat, fried food, dollar perfume.

There's Angie.

Each sensation crawls under her skin, settling nests of wrongness beneath the epidermis. Her brain is heavy, her face is rainwater and thick fog—hiding medicinally violent clarity in its midst.

[ Y O U’ L L G E T E M N E X T T I M E ! ]

She wipes her face as her lungs fatigue with a strange weight. Her breaths come in shallow, gasping spurts. The animation's mechanical voice cuts through her thoughts with its grating timbre, like a rusted blade scraping her ears off her skull—down to the quik.

250 to 100. Was that his loss, or your gain? The inevitable taunts her, like extracting shrapnel from a bloated corpse's skull.

‘I don't wanna play anymore-’ she mouths, voiceless like the last sputter of a drain as her eyes narrow to the gun on her person. The chalkiness of the air jams her throat, the bruise-purple animations darkens her scowl. The cold weight of it against her hip is a small comfort, a reminder that she’s still capable of action.

Even if she doesn’t know what that action should be.

That's why you brought a gun to an arcade. That's exactly why, they make you feel dead inside, don't they? You hate losing control, don't you?

Can't risk it. Can't risk it.


“I need a second.” Sweat burns her eyes. Her nails steal hot spikes of pain from her palms. Neons smear across her vision like wet paint the muddled, blue eye shadow turning her drying tears true blue.

She drinks that in, a red string shooting though her at the cold, invasive probe searching her for something—weakness, regret, fear— the dreadful understanding takes her by surprise.

You’re dead Ha Neul. You're both so, so dead. Something messed up happened to you.

But this isn't hell.


There's something darker waiting for her in ‘there’—beyond mere darkness, beyond narcissistic shortcomings.

[ YOU’LL GET ‘EM NEXT TIME ! ]

Her body flinches against her will. Muscles tense like she's bracing for impact.

Nothing.

Nothing but… ‘Gail’ and his bones snapping back into a familiar shape as the arcade groans like the raw, vulnerable lining of an animal stomach.

Her breath hitches. Glare tightens, veins in her skull pinch in rebellion. A new image hammers her senses.

Gasoline. Flames. A dying engine. Shrieks of terror. Wet pavement.

There's never gonna be a next time for us, is there?

Angie’s mind fractures in that slow, iscarian way it often does. Makes her bite the inside of her cheek, swallow anguish until her tongue is copper and her spit's pink and red, red, red.

Like an egg it tears her apart from the inside—flashes of what could have been, what might have been, what she’d failed to stop.

Gail. Bloodied and limp. Eyes staring unseeing at the darkened sky.

Gail smiling, teeth to eyes this time, not the anxious half-hearted twitch that told her-just now-that she’d just gotten used to his pacifiers. He'd never be okay.

Gail in a suit at a Fortune 500 meeting. Gail on a power plant far north. Gail staring down her coffin and sparing her kind words.

A hundred million of Gail, living a hundred million lives of Gail forever cut off from her.

“What-what did you say?” they–Gail ad infinitum–cling to her sticky and persistent, like blood in the ER — it wouldn't wash away. It reeked, for weeks. Through the tide, she saw him multicolored, moving at different frequencies like a shattered lens.

Don't-don't you fucking touch me. She smacks him away, pulse drumming in her brain, “please. Please.” she staggers towards the side of another booth, leaning against it as she forced air into her lungs. Holding it for a beat. And releasing it.

Christmas?

Was that it? The something-missing? The noise of the arcade faded into the background, the screeching machine, the mocking squirrel, all of it dulling under her focus. She glanced at her hand. The one that wasn’t clenched into a fist. Watched as it trembled.

Gail was born on the 28th of January, the 16th of May, or some time in August. Christmas was easy to pin on him, he liked the snow, it was the only season Angela didn't work.

She blinks, hard, several times, and the room snapped back into focus. Her jaw tightens, her teeth grinding together as she pulled herself to her full height.

Why Christmas? Angels can't save a soul on Christmas Day. Too cold.

“You… You're right. That's… that's ridiculous.” she says, face in her hands, her voice limp-dead.

Her brain takes an executive detour in the face of total shutdown.

Burnout, and the cracks start forming.

Little inconsistencies. Abnormalities. His eyes—empty, soulless—betrayed nothing, and yet, everything.

Angela’s eyes flash with something through the fingers—anger, fear, desperation?— she buries it quickly, masking it with a cool indifference.

This wasn’t just a game, wasn't a pity party for her to feel sorry for herself, and they were running out of time.

Them?

Anna.

“Did… did you do a lot of research? Gail? On this place?” Slow to rise, she sniffles. She would ask for them to head outside for a second, play another game. Something Quieter, less blinding.

She can't. The roof is frayed at the edge of her own consciousness.

This isn’t real. Gail isn't here.

He’s gone. Gone. Gone. And you are too.

[ Crack ! ]
In the opposite panel, she sees a different version of them—a kaleidoscope of possibilities, each more unnerving than the last.

[ Crack ! ]
Gail's face looks younger. Unscarred. Untroubled. Womanly even.

It's like seeing a ghost that never was. Blue ribbons in his hair. She takes a step forward, another shift. Every movement is echoed by a dozen reflections, some show Gail, others Anna, and a few are grotesque amalgamations of both.

Gail—no, ANNA—smiles adoringly at a figure she can't quite see. The smile is wrong, twisted in a way that makes her skin crawl. It’s a smile that doesn’t belong on Anna’s face, a smile that shouldn’t exist. Gail and Anna.

Anna and Gail.

Anna and The Eyeless.

They're trapped with the beast, and she needed to break Anna out of here before it killed them both.

The gun on her hip feels too heavy. She knows she'll use it—has to use it—but there’s a part of her that fears what will happen when she does.

What happens here could hurt her. Can't allow a sacrifice.

Biting her lip, she tilts her head at the speck between Gail and the backdrop. The surrounding area consists of forgettable faces—no, faceless faces. Stuck like jarring still-lifes sloppily tucked out of view.

Panic couldn't tempt her to shoot, so it set her to study.

Flickers of moments call to her mind there. Distorted memories, out of sync with time.

They’re not just of Anna, but of herself and Gail and a dark haired soldier—small, mundane things that shouldn’t matter, yet here they are, repeating over and over.

Why? Why would it show these inconsistencies so freely?

“Do you remember why I moved to France? I got sick of it after a year, but it was nice there.” The Eyeless was playing with memories of uncertainty when it came to Gail. She didn't know what happened to him, how could the real Gail know anything about her once those memories of him ended?

“And my sister?” she paused, those words shouldn't have left her mouth as she circled the room, eyeing Gail, and eyeing the entrance. She wanted him to mirror her.

“She was supposed to stop in but her flight got delayed, remember her name? It's a funny one.” None of these questions and answers Gail knew.

A SIG SAUR P226. Hollow point rounds that expanded on impact. The gun is a promise of violence in her practiced hands, a spiral of bloody, crimson miasma gathering at the barrel from her fingers—a promise she'll have to keep.

The sights lining up with the twisted image of Gail—Anna—in front of her. The loop theory hums in her ears, a constant reminder of the stakes, of the consequences if she gets this wrong.

[ snick ! CLAP ! ]
Sonic boom pain spearheads the bullet, superheated in its wake. It shrieks past Gail’s-Anna’s-ALBRECHT's-her ears.

“Anna, focus! Whoever he was, he's not worth dying over!”

A double helix reacharound.

Second bullet. The arcade ripples like a disturbed pond, reality bending around her. She leaps, limbs full of purpose as she chases the bullet through the fractured world.









































































































































































































































































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♡coded by uxie♡
 
Naomi (2).gifLOCATION: WALLY'S SECRET COVE
INTERACTIONS: ALMA Gh0stOcean Gh0stOcean NICHOLAS Kovacs Kovacs QING YI ERode ERode


Brittle, splintered. Each supplicated apology a flit of rent butterfly wings lurching into an inevitable plunge, a stinging blade savaged each attempt. Miss Naomi. The moniker was delivered with the decisive snap of keen-edged scissors, severing a bond as if it were a slip of thread. Naomi’s hand, which had sought to block Alma, now cried for her; its fingertips futilely reached into empty space.

Naomi was a hapless spectator of the horror unfolding before her. The screen spectacled the gritty achievements of a team, ramshackle as they may be, triumphing over evil. A rusted knight willed by its tenacious master in a harrowingly glorious manifestation of power. A rift stretches between Naomi and the feature, pushed farther into the depths insignificance until she was nothing but eyes in an abyss.

What was she even here for?

Her skin’s luster dampened into a dull pale. Shivers tugged the strings of her muscles. Sweat dewed her temple. Her limbs felt rooted to the earth; the mere thought of moving them exhausted her. A sheep away from its herd. A rabbit too docile to sense a threat. She might as well have been offered on a silver platter.

A wetness splattered across her face in scorched red whips. Her lashes fluttered in delayed awareness; her conscious mind barely flickered to the surface. Cotton stuffed her head, muffled, pacifying. Numb of thoughts or reason. Something plastic propped on a slender neck, a centerpiece. Sounds coalesced into a thick, melted slosh of nothingness around her.

Alma’s back shielded Naomi. She’s within her reach. But the hand reached towards Naomi wasn’t Alma’s, like a pencil punctured through a sheet of pulpy red paper.

Naomi’s eyes widened, pools of green that somehow still had tears to spare. A sickening realization hit her: tears weren’t the only warmth trickling down her cheeks. Her hand swiped at her face; the redness left on her fingertips clarified what she already knew.

Alma’s body walloped the ground with a nauseating plop. Her pristine visage tainted by a torrent of crimson, too much for the dried ground to drink in time. Naomi barely caught a glimpse of the monstrosity responsible, its laugh springing her wilting heart with the flaring clobber of survival. Two ends of her are made violent playthings between the gnarled teeth of terror and obligation.

Alma’s pain, Alma’s words. Naomi feels Alma’s breath as if it was her own.

“I’m… So…Sor…ry…”


Why…? Why was she apologizing?

“At least you’re safe.”

Phantom words from a time she’d rather leave buried deep and never found. Phantom words from a time not too dissimilar from this one.

Naomi: naïve, guard down, something easily plucked and savaged.

An agent: Courageous, experienced, willing to sacrifice themself for her stupid sake.

Before Alma, it was Mellor.

Naomi all too rapt in the defeat of petty C-tiers she’d failed to sense the oncoming B-tier starved for blood. Mellor had jumped to her rescue just as it struck, caging Naomi between portals for her protection at the cost of his effectiveness.

When the B-tier perished, Mellor followed soon after. Naomi watched, unable to reach him, left to wonder if that was how people from times of old felt when the sun would sink beneath the horizon, unsure if it’d ever rise again. If Alma was cursed, Naomi was no better.

“At least you’re safe.”

The words echoed, almost taunting. She thinks she hears a clash of metal somewhere in the deafening vacuum of her thoughts.

“We will not let you die.”

But what about you?

Naomi reached beside her and palmed for the gauze and antiseptic wipes Alma had rifled out of her bag. What felt like pushing a boulder uphill was simply Naomi gathering the strength to bend her legs onto her knees. The searing ache of her missing foot indignantly throbbing at the effort. Shrill, agonized squeals pierce the air around her, giving away to labored breaths. Her bones attempted to stubbornly weigh her down, her vision spun, but she dragged every ounce of her towards Alma blind to the protest.

“Hold…Hold on.” Naomi whimpered; knees sunk in the agent’s blood. “I can…I can fix…fix this.” Words felt thick against her knotted tongue, the fatigue and the pain steadily wore her down. A persistent current against porous rock.

Hands pushed beneath Alma's shoulders, hooked under her armpits and heaved. The exertion was enough to stir little blinking lights, the tiny specks freckling her vision. With Alma's limp body on her lap, the oozing cavity in her chest gaped up at her.

“O-okay…What is it that…that Angie always says? Pressure? Apply pressure? Right…Alma?” No response.

Naomi bit her lip, chin trembling as her pale hand—colored only by the blistering scarlet of Alma's blood—hovered over the hole and pressed down. A patch of tape against a burgeoning dam.

“I'm sorry…it hurts, right…?” No response. Alma’s opened eyes stared back, unblinking.

A pleading sob wracked Naomi's whole body. Slamming into her with all the violence and turbulence of a stormy ocean. The medical supplies spilled from her grasp in favor of cradling Alma's face.

“You-you said it hurts so….I…I…” Naomi’s tears dripped onto the doll’s face, rolling down pallid skin slowly being abandoned by warmth. “I'm sorry….I'm-I'm so sorry…” Alma would come back. Naomi knew this. She hadn't known it with Mellor, but she knew it now. So why didn't it hurt any less? The hair undone from its braid draped like curtain over them, shielding the shameful moment from view. Naomi tried to wipe the blood off Alma’s lips, only spreading the red further along her jaw. “I…I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.” A wept mantra with no foreseeable conclusion.

Mustering what ghost of strength might remain in her, Naomi pulled Alma further up and protectively wrapped her arms around her small, blood-soaked frame. Steeped in Alma’s blood and sobbing into her hair, Naomi’s eyes shut tight. Whatever happened outside of their illusioned bubble was a smeared wet canvas. Indistinguishable vague shapes and blurs of color. A flash of light crossed her closed eyelids. Naomi, unaware of its source or purpose, doesn’t see Caerwyn’s dissipating form casting a shadow over them, blocking their bodies from the scathing vision.
 
Nyctiel
The Blindsided
Anna Maria Schwarzschild
Wal y' S lash Z ne, N W YO K CIT
"Freedom is a relative concept. Our privation was borne of our desires."

"And what would you have me do with a child that is not mine? We obliged the rudiments of our defiance!"

"I obliged your hands for a better life, only to find myself shackled by her very own existence."

"We are all prisoners of our past. At the very least, you-, nein, we owe her a future."

"Not with us."

"What do you mean? Ida. What have you done?"

"'Tis been arranged. She will fetch quite a fortune for us and you need not worry about her prospects. Need I remind you what she is? I wish neither to revisit nor impose that bitter memory."

"They will find out, sooner or later. I will talk to her."

"Nein. I will do it. As her mother, it is best she lends an ear to her own blood."

"Fine. At the very least, tell me. Who is it?"

"An associate of mine. A Junker* from the house of Meyer. He is in need of a bride to spill his seeds and would pay a handsome fortune for it. Besides, he and I both share the same sentiments against the Schwarzschild. Think of it as my final settlement on the matter of my exile and she will be the key to my freedom."


Rain - much like the day she took the saddle west in search of a fate that she did not comprehend. The stern visage of an experienced traveller, whose words are inscribed upon his decisive acts. Dark strands of eminent shadow locks, much like his uniform and steed. Course hands, and callous gaze. An intense flame that would surely swallow her whole, yet only flickered with the tugging sensation of a perpetual inflammation that wrestled her lungs - constantly shaping her own being to his liking. She despised his appearance then, wishing only to tear it all down. But as she reminded herself of her own hatred for the nobility, she could not help but find solace in the very existence of a man that managed to defy her alleged expectations.

As she reminisced on the brief image of a distant lake where stained baskets and spilled wine had added the necessary colors to her gray induction, the cadence of Prussian might harassed her senses, bringing about a lingering thought of dreadful bitterness and unprecedented fear. The steady humming of the mirror's light began to crumble under its one resonance, slowly distorting until they become individual tenors of men screaming at the top of their lungs. The darkened edges of the mirror reeled her in, replaying the harrowing image of the light-spangled darkness where harkening shells would detonate with her very own heartbeat. The explosions that surrounded her in a sea of flames began to manifest its intentions, robbing her of her breath as she felt her own skin melt away with scorching shrapnels riddling her entire body. The pouring rain outside then harmonized with the laments of the dying, amalgamating the grotesquely-elegant sounds of rifles and drums.

Her eyes widened, horrified by the deafening sounds of war and that of her own mirrored form, of which had manifested its own undying will. Irises so pale and stricken by the pulsating blood that ran rampant throughout her entire body, accompanied by the sickening urge to give in to the psychotic trance that wrestled for her own consciousness. As she tried to free herself from her petrified state, the world around her began to shift, with the stalls and walls unfounded by impending destructions.

"Nein... bitte! Bitte! (No, please! Please!)" Anna rejected with a whimpering voice, as the painful memories began to flood her mind. The perfect world not of her own making was already collapsing around her. On the precipice of reality and illusion, she found herself torn by the harrowing design of her insinuated death - followed by the speculation of her own existence. If only Albrecht was here, she wishfully contemplated. She would no doubt take to his arms and resided within the safe harbor of his embrace. She wanted it to be true, for he was the only familiar being that knew her soul. Splinters then threw her attention towards the main entrance, akin to that of an invader who longed to intrude upon this safe haven that she had temporarily conjured for herself. The brief shimmering of the world beyond was marked with a sea of flames.

Throwing herself back with a recoiled ejection, the disturbing image of her withered state caused her to break free from her spiraling state of mind. At the edge of death's door, she reflected first on the words that were sealed deep in the confinements of her own soul. The magna carta that bound her to a certain set of principles that she could not forsake, but did not remember. She understood it well enough that she would risk it all to bestow it upon the one she love with all her heart. Alas, there was one factor that failed to meet such criteria for her to simply unseal those words held in regret. The windows to one's soul - their eyes. Yet in this eyeless world, she finally recognized why she was unable to commit those words to her beloved Albie. The answer was simple and plain - he was not her Albie. In her final moments of despair and demise, she wished to see his brilliant eyes again and keep his eyes on her for all eternity.

"What is your name?"

"Anna. Anna Maria Schwarzschild. And you, mein Herr?"

"I am Oberst (Colonel) Albrecht von Heeringen of the Fifty-Ninth Regiment. It would seems that I do require some immediate assistance with personal procurement details. As it stands, we will both benefit from our prerequisites. You will be provided for under my protection with a written contract to action your indentured service. What say you, Frau Schwarzschild?"


"Under such circumstances, one cannot discern what they are not entitled to. I will oblige, mein Herr." Anna whispered to herself, as she repeated the same reply she gave him at the time. She remembered, recalling the steeled, cold gaze of Albrecht's undaunting eyes. A rare feature that managed to impart both fear and adoration in her. Colluding with her own existence on this illusionary plane, she channeled her focus, reining in the toils of her admittance to accept him as she did from a time she has yet to fully remember. His unrelenting eyes had brilliant disguised his empathetic words, but have always remained true to her and her alone with its distinctive glimmers. The very testament of his existence and the very revelation that she had been played for a fool without them.

"I will crush you as I like. But first, you must suffer. I will be in his arms, and you can do nothing about it."

The voices of the Bride coiled around Anna, pouring salt over a wound that had long remained open. Bitter with resentment at the thought, Anna was sure that her invisible assailant was poised on taking away her Albrecht. Pale viridian eyes, boiling with jealousy and bewitching hatred conjured forth the Blue Composer's rapid flair of emotions.

“Anna, focus! Whoever he was, he's not worth dying over!”

"Blazes! I have had enough of you-" Anna muttered to herself, as her welling eyes locked past the narrow corridor in an attempt to process the stinging sensation that zipped past her. Crimson was her left ear, tainting the immaculately rare beauty with a red mark of ill-intentions. Mistakening the Bride's voice to be the same as the invisible gunner, her fists were forcefully clenched with commensurate intensity to match. Unbound to her existing knowledge, as far as she could tell. They knew her name, and had dared to insinuate her beloved Albrecht's disposition in the matter. The trigger that pulled her own perception from this false world would become the same trigger that let loose the Maiden's own wrath.

Wrapping herself in a surgical motion with great speed, the lady somersaulted towards the ceiling by her instincts as a streak of light flashed past her bloody fingers. As she landed on her feet and adjusted her stance, a piece of crumbled paper fell from her grips and onto the ground. Dissipating in a sizzling manner, the parchment unveiled a spitzer bullet that was discharged from a conventional firearm. Dented from the impact against the arcane piece of paper that managed to materialize from Anna's will, it stood to reason that this was no ordinary world that Anna would like to believe, let alone her innate ability to catch it within a short amount of time.

Unbeknownst to her, she had deflected Angela's first bullet, which had conspired to reel both of them out of the false world. As for the source of the bullet, that was a lead that she too must chase after to find her answers. Taking in to heart this mysterious development, the lady reexamined her notebook with a brief glance, as her eyes no longer teeming with the same brilliant blue it once possessed. Her environment would take shape again as if nothing had happened. Drawn by her impulsive urgency that managed to override her gradual movements, Anna wasted no time to apply her own colors and finally emerged from the restroom with flushed cheeks and glossed lips. Her ear still retained some residue of her own blood from the mysterious bullet, though it has been tended to by Anna with a part of her dress's frill plucked off to stem the bleeding prior. A roughened lady, whose instinctive reactions were very much intact, however dormant they may be at the moment.

"Oh, Albie. You silver-tongued Devil, you." She replied with a coy smile, putting on a facade that was as eloquent as her false tone. But to fully sell her performance, she took a step further and locked her elbows with Albrecht's, before leaning over to take take a bite out of the cotton candy. "Arcade? Well that certainly sounds attractive. Though I will have you accomodate me in the matter." She teased him with a warm look in her eyes that was certain to caress any man's heart. Although she did so with a subtle indication to examine her lover's response.

As they made their way towards the Arcade, Anna looked up to Albrecht and raised her sweet voice: "Indulge me, Albie. Do you know how to make a hotdog?"

*Translation Note: A Junker is connotation for land-owning nobles, notably in Prussia. They often possess preposition "von" before their family names.



Zedalith Zedalith AURS AURS
Code by Serobliss
 



Mellor.jpg

The Caretaker

Mellor
Akir

Mell had some experience under his belt and he felt pretty confident in his abilities. He had a pretty good sense for weeding out B-tiers but anything higher than that was a little bit trickier to sense. It was one of the reasons he enjoyed being on a team with Ilia - for all the things about Ilia that rubbed Mell the wrong way, one thing to his credit was that the man's danger sense was second to none. And Mell had come to spot when Ilia felt something wrong. Even while paying a compliment, Ilia's expression still betrayed that there was something on his mind.

At first, Mellor had ignored it and not said anything. However, when Ilia mentioned that the greatest game still awaited, he got this sense of dread. Of course Ilia was going to take them straight towards whatever foulness he had sensed earlier. A sigh escaped his lips as he nodded, proceeding to stretch out his muscles as he slowly got feeling back in them. Within the next minute, he was at full capacity again.

Mellor knew that if the upcoming fight was bigger than this, he'd need to prepare all over again and frowned at the thought that he always had to hinder himself to be effective. Needing to have preparatory portals open meant that he was never actually fighting at full strength and the realisation that if Ilia and Elyn has been even a minute late, it's possible that neither he nor Fifth would still be here left an uncomfortable swirl in his stomach. He'd need to find a way to rectify that...and soon.

For now, he would get ready the best way he knew how. The light-giving portal floated off the wall and let its light sweep over the whole room. "Before we head out, I'm gonna take a look around. See if there's anything here I can use in the next fight."


Experience had taught him that, when you have the advantage of being able to pretty much summon whatever you want, you more than often want bigger things that do more damage. That in mind, when he saw a derailed roller coaster train, a smirk found its way to his lips and he set up a portal under the first car. If nothing else, he could try trapping whatever it was under the cars.

A little more looking around and he found a large, loose rock. Honestly, more of a boulder than anything. It reminded him of a little stunt he, Ilia and Elyn had pulled where they bought him time and he essentially threw a massive rock at the aberration. He looked back at them and whistled to get their attention - wide, refreshed grin on his face - almost as if the four of them weren't actively hunting and being hunted. "Hey, if we really get our backs pressed against the wall, we got old reliable portal cannon over here." He set up another portal under the rock. He'd save this one for last. Hopefully they wouldn't need to use it but it still reminded him of something he regarded as a pleasant memory.

Setting up such a large portal meant that he couldn't set up many others without practically crippling himself. With the two portals he'd opened, he'd dropped himself to about 65% efficiency, which would typically be enough to keep up with an A-Tier, so he could only hope that it was enough to keep him alive against what was very likely an S-tier. If history was anything to go by, Ilia and Elyn would like be the main damage dealers while he provided them with support from the back. He glanced over at Fifth, appraising him with a concerned look. He'd taken heavy damage. Knowing Ilia, he'd want to keep Fifth out of the fight. After all, for as cold as Ilia could be, Mell got the feeling he didn't actually want Fifth dead.
Assist Elyn and Ilia and protect Fifth, huh? Sounds doable.

He walked back to Ilia and the others, opening and clenching his fists as he tried to get a feel for how much energy he had left while hyping himself up for the next fight. Ilia seemed to have liked being called boss and Mell supposed that a more pleasant Ilia could do everybody some good, so he'd feed into the ego for now. "Ready when you are, boss," he announced as he finally pulled out his phone to read Naomi's message.

Without his knowledge or permission, a smile found its way to his features as he read the message. It was sweet of her to check in, he'd have to remember to apologise for not getting back to her sooner, but Ilia would probably make a fuss if he started texting her now. After all, they'd likely be meeting up soon. It's good to know that she's doing okay, though. I guess I was worried about nothing earlier. Freaking out because you thought you heard a girl scream. Come on Mellor, you're in an amusement park, of course girls are going to scream. He shook his head at his own paranoia, yet the smile stayed on his features; part of him excited to see Naomi and how her team had done; he remembered her being excited for the mission and had come to look forward to her excitedly telling him about how nasty the aberrations were.

Focus Mell. Naomi later, mission now. You'll have all the time in the world to catch up once you get rid of the aberrations. You can even take her on a ride to celebrate. But for now, focus on the three in front of you. Protecting them is your mission. Naomi can wait.

With that reminder, he took in a deep breath and recentered, mind now solely focused on the mission ahead.


Mentions: Ilia ( Zedalith Zedalith ), Elyn ( lyn. lyn. ), Fifth ( Togy Togy )
 
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NICHOLAS NEALE-ST JAMES
LOCATION. WALLY'S ADVENTURE WORLD
𖤍 NYCTIEL 𖤍
By the time he was able to catch even a glimpse of Qing-Yi and the ghostly knight's epic showdown with Bessy, Nick still had a gaggle of undead nipping at his tailbone.
It was like wrestlin' a mess of mad coyotes—only colder, bonier, and smellier. He’d lost count of how many times he’d nearly tripped over his own feet, or how many times he’d swung and realized he needed to switch on his phasing before the pain of his fist connecting with a decomposed skull told him. He felt like a furnace of exertion; arms swimming in lactic acid, his lungs flirting with fire, and most importantly his focus—scattered about like a bag of ping-pong balls set loose.
He was just about ready to just dive into a cavern wall when a particularly aggressive zombie latched onto his leg for a split-second, threatening to topple him. With a surge of adrenaline, Nick phased his leg and fist through its torso, which burned like blue-tinted soul acid against the creature's decaying flesh. It dissolved into ash before hitting the ground.
Every now and then, he'd catch a brief moment of satisfaction in the midst of all the commotion, watchin' the real stars of the show. Qing-Yi and Caerwyn's smooth moves against the Whisperer came together like a pair of old pros at a trap shoot, each shot landing faster and truer than the last. Meanwhile, there he was, flailing about like a buckin' bronco at a ranchman's bar—
Just then, Miss Alma’s voice rang across the cavern, slicing through the tumult like a knife through butter.
Nick watched with a mixture of awe and relief as Caerwyn responded to his liege's call, the knight's rusted form shimmering with a dark resolve as it rose, the heavy thud of its armored boots striking the ground carrying with it the sound of thunder. Bessy was now nothing more than a struggling heap beneath Caerwyn’s implacable weight. Nick could scarcely believe the scene unfolding before him—for a time, even the frenzy of the remaining undead seemed to wane, as if they too were momentarily entranced by the raw power now being wielded against their resurrecter.
For a few heartbeats, Nick could see nothing but the swirling void bleeding from Caerwyn's helm, plunged into a suffocating darkness. He stumbled about, disoriented, tryin' to relocate and dissolve the last corpse or three after him as the mist coalesced into the fearsome shape of a wolf’s head, alive with insidious hunger.
It didn't feel nice at all; in fact, the mist felt downright heavy, like a thick blanket of wet cotton pressin' down on his head. Nick fought through the feeling of claustrophobia with diminishing notice to his foes, as they seemed to dissolve in the dark, their eerie wails fading to nothing. It was through this haze that he saw it: the giant wolf’s head, tearing through the A-tier with such brutal otherworldly efficiency that left Nick with a brand new respect for Alma, one that screamed 'don’t-mess-with-her' loud and clear. The sight was a lotta things: horrifying, gut-churning, mesmerizing—but most importantly, it meant victory. At long last!
Nick couldn’t help it—a surge of relief shot through him, propelling his fist to fly up with a high-pitched 'whoo!' that cut through the air like lightning. The knight’s impressive display of strength left him feeling like he could tackle a grizzly bear with nothing but his bare hands. His laugh, a raw, hearty sound, echoed off the cavern walls, preceded the wipe of sweat and grime from his brow as he caught Qing-Yi's bloodied but breezy eye, face split into a wide, goofy grin.
But boy, it didn’t last long. Faltering, replaced instead by a furrowed brow as grey eyes scanned beyond his fellow agent, tryin' to figure out what was making his gut twist with dread all of a sudden.
Just then, before he could even react, the S-tier Aberration was onto 'em. The thing was a sickly pale, horned blur of uncanny proportions, darting quicker than a jackrabbit on steroids. Nick’s heart jumped into his throat, thrown out of sorts by Caerwyn's own jump to his side, swoopin' in to counteract against the claws of death preening to cleave Nick's head clean off his shoulders.
The knight's sword clanged against them claws like two pissed-off rattlers in a tin can. Nick watched, jaw hanging as Caerwyn fought, his warrior grace as smooth as buttered cornbread. But that didn't seem to want to last long either. Caerwyn was startin' to look wore out, that sword of his gettin' heavier and more translucent by the minute.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
Miss Alma, as brave as a bullfrog in a snake pit, got herself the very definition of a nasty surprise. One minute she was standin' tall, the next she was flat on her back, the S-tier cruelly mimicking what her Gift had done to the Whisperer only minutes earlier. The eyeless white devil had her skewered through, like a stab of the brush into the watercolor canvas, drowning it in bloody crimson. Time seemed to freeze, the world muted to a single, horrifying image: Alma, dead.
A cold tsunami of panic surged through Nick, gripping him tight and not letting go, even as Caerwyn’s weak, distorted voice reached his ears.
“Sir… Nicholas…”
Nick’s eyes widened, and he staggered a step forward, his throat tightening. “Wait, no—no! Don’t go!” He tried to shout, but the words came out as a desperate croak.
The knight’s armor was battered and worn, the strength that had once seemed unbreakable now slipping away. The sword, prime symbol of Caerwyn’s might, lay heavy at Nick’s feet. “Hold on! Jus'—jus' hold on a minute!” Nick pleaded, his voice cracking with urgency.
Caerwyn’s final words cut through the chaos with the gravitas of a solemn oath. “I hereby, with the limited authority placed in me… do dub thee… for the remainder of this mission… Ser Nicholas Neale-St. James… Knight of House Rhys…”
As Caerwyn’s form began to turn to ash, Nick’s heart sank. “No, no, don’t leave us!” he cried out, reaching as if he could somehow pull the knight back from phasing away entirely. But it was too late. The knight’s presence dissolved into a cloud of dust, leaving Nick with a hefty new role thrust upon him.
The sword felt like a damn anvil in his hands. Just like that, he was Ser Nicholas, Protector of the Currently Incapacited Lady Severed Foot and Lady Liege's corpse. A real bad joke if he'd ever heard one, over any badge of honor Alma's rusted can surely meant it to be. As if it could somehow change the fact that he was in way over his head. All that... all that talk bout potential... Nick swallowed hard, the nettle scraping all the way down his throat. He shook his head violently, trying to clear the fog of white-hot guilt threatening to choke him.
When the Aberration’s chest flared up with a blinding light, Nick’s attention snapped into high gear. He squeezed his eyes shut against the blinding glare, the heat clawing at him like a swarm of scalding bees. That light felt like it had a mind of its own, tugging and twisting at everything around him, but Nick knew he had to hang on tight.
In the split second of darkness before the light hit him full force, he heard Naomi’s heart-wrenching cries—raw and gut-wrenching, cutting through the din of the cavern like bamboo meetin' a machete slice. He glimpsed her out of the corner of his eye, huddled beside Alma’s lifeless form, clingin' to it as her mournful sobs themselves died off into little whimpers.
The fog of death left behind by Caerwyn’s last moments scattered and contorted the light away, forming a kind of protective mist that shielded Nick and Naomi from the worst of the searing heat. It was a Gift's final gift, creating a barrier that bought them a few precious moments. The mist shimmered and flickered, throwing strange, phantasmal patterns all over the cavern walls.
It felt like a lifetime, but was only a moment. Eyes opened, Nick could barely make sense of what he saw. The S-tier Aberration, that giant, menacing horned figure wrapped in flowing white robes, was runnin' away.
Like hell you are!
Nick’s heart pounded away like a runaway mule, driven by a finger-lickin' fierce determination. With a raw, guttural shout, he charged forward, raising and clutching the knight’s sword like a thunderbolt. His sneakers pounded against the cavern floor, propelling him straight at the retreating beast.
As he closed the gap, Nick leapt with all his might, thrusting the sword out in a desperate bid to stop the S-tier in its tracks. The blade sliced through the Aberration’s billowing white robes and dug into the floor just enough to make it stagger and bring its flight to a halt.
The S-tier Aberration let out a guttural, almost surprised roar as the robe’s fabric, now pinned by the sword, strained under the beast’s efforts to escape. It was like watching a bull caught in a snare—powerful but momentarily helpless.
Nick’s muscles screamed in protest as he strained against the weight of the sword and the creature’s efforts to break free. Every fiber of his being felt like it was being pulled in opposite directions, the tension in his shoulders and arms nearly unbearable. He managed to maintain his grip, his knuckles white and trembling. As the creature’s claws swiped at him with a blinding speed, Nick instinctively activated his phasing ability just in time. His body shimmered and blurred, becoming intangible as the massive claws passed through the space where he had been.
Nick wrestled with the ache in his shoulders as he popped up from his crouch like a whack-a-mole, giving up the sword with a grimace. Gritting his teeth, he reached out, letting his arm phase through the creature’s thick hide and right into its chest.
Inside that Aberration’s chest, Nick’s soul traces flared up, tryin’ to eat away at the flesh from the inside. It felt like he’d shoved his arm into a pot of scaldin’ tar. His soul’s power was burnin’ and eatin’ away at the meat, but that beast’s quick-healin’ just outpaced him every step of the way. The creature’s flesh bubbled and squirmed like it was laughin’ at Nick’s struggles.
If it weren't so terrifying, it'd been almost downright comical seein’ such a massive, fearsome critter thrown off by a little man's arm. Nick got dragged along with it, his sneakers barely skimming the floor.
But even with his body being as wraithlike as the white devil itself, his arm remained painfully solid as a sack of chicken feed. The S-tier quickly realized this as it tried to swipe at him again, its claws slicing through the air where his body had been. It roared in frustration, its eyeless focus shiftin' as it recognized the futility of tryin' to lay a scratch on him while he was intangible. With a sinister gleam in its terrifying row of teeth, it turned its attention instead toward Naomi.
Nick’s heart sank as he saw the creature’s intentions. It was a cruel tactic—if it couldn’t reach him, it would go after Naomi to force his hand. Panic surged through him, and he struggled to pull his arm out of the beast’s chest. The effort was grueling, the regenerative flesh clinging to him as he fought to free himself. With a final, desperate heave, he managed to withdraw his arm, but the S-tier wasn’t done with him yet.
Before Nick even had a chance to touch down, the S-tier's mighty grip clamped down on his solid arm like a bear trap. The strength of its hold was downright bone-crushing, and Nick felt a sickening lurch as he was yanked off the ground, his feet swingin' like a half-naked ragdoll in its grip. The pressure was so intense he could almost hear his bones creakin'. His mind raced a mile a minute, tryin' to phase out of that brutal grip, but it was too late. With a savage, twisting motion, the S-tier flung him through the cavern like a sack of potatoes.
The world spun in a disorienting blur as Nick hurtled through the air. The impact was bone-jarring, pain exploding through his back like a firecracker on the fourth of July. He hit that cave stone hard enough to leave him gaspin’ for breath, the world around him blurried and his senses reeling. Every muscle felt like it was bein’ torched, and the ache in his back was a relentless hammering.
As Nick lay crumpled against the wall, the mist swirlin’ around them was still thick and heavy. His vision was all hazy, but he forced himself to squint through the pain. The S-tier was gone. He managed to look over toward Qing-Yi, then shifted his gaze to Naomi, tryin’ to make sense of it all through the fog of his agony.
Her tear-filled eyes was the last thing he saw before the world went dark.
INTERACTIONS. ERode ERode Pilgrim59 Pilgrim59 Gh0stOcean Gh0stOcean
 
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Kovacs Kovacs Klown Klown Zedalith Zedalith

“Phew.”

Once the Whisperer was pinned down by Caerwyn and the order was given, Qing-Yi decided that she was a bit hungry too. She had handed most of the turkey sliders over to Alma, but obviously kept one for herself, so amidst the torturous shrieking of an Aberration being consumed by what looked like a black hole, the Chinese Agent unwrapped a slider herself, taking a couple of bites. It was lukewarm now, and the ‘turkey’ was a bit stringy underneath the sauces. Her tongue flicked over her teeth: cooked onion, ketchup, mustard, and an aioli of sorts, hm? Interesting, but a touch sweet for her own tastes. She finished the slider by the time Caerwyn did his own meal and flashed a thumbs up at the rusted knight.

It was instinctual, what happened next.

The air stirred, the perpetual aura of dread that surrounded such blighted places only sharpening upon the Whisperer’s demise. Qing-Yi inhaled sharply, then hurtled back, away from the other three, prioritizing her own well-being as the predator struck. Nick had the safety of intangibility, Alma had Caerwyn’s protection, and Naomi, as obviously wounded as she was, offered up so little that her loss would not impact the mission.

But the dice fell in the worst possible manner.

Sinuous, a visage carved into an eternal smile. Shark-like, eyeless, a predator built for the darkness of the cove. And yet, human too. Human enough to laugh at those whose hearts it grasped.

Caerwyn’s sword clanged against the claws meant to behead Nick, while Alma’s heart burst out from her back. Retaliation came from the rusted knight, intercepting the Eyeless as they turned their attention towards Naomi, but the clash ended swiftly. Without the source of his power, the Knight collapsed upon one knee. He exchanged words. Left behind a sword. Gave up his body as a shield, while the Eyeless opened up its chest and released a baleful light.

Up in the ceiling of the cove, Qing-Yi watched the proceedings, expression unreadable.

And when Nick sprung to action, she did too, dropping back down into the waters where Naomi apologized to the soon-to-not-be-dead. Applying pressure to one part of a hole just meant that you pushed it all out the other end. Apologies ought to be saved for the day after, though it was understandable to do so while emotions ran the hottest. The water lapped at them all, dark blood gradating into a soft pink upon clothing.

“Naomi.” Fabric teared behind the grieving woman, as Qing-Yi tore a strip off her clothes with the claw of her hammer. “Alma died for you, so get out of this cove and call for help from Ilia.” She twisted the fabric until it became a cord, then pulled out Naomi’s footless leg from out under her. A tourniquet was meant to hurt, meant not to be done with mere human strength, but each Agent was inhuman to begin with. As if tying shoelaces, Qing-Yi tied the cord a few inches above the bleeding stump, restricting the flow best as she could. It would hurt. Perhaps hurt terribly. Like having a beast clamp their teeth upon your flesh.

Sometimes, physical pain was the preferred substitute for emotional pain.

Nick was coming back now. Forcibly so. Maybe he had a concussion. Must have done well though, if those Aberration roars she had heard were any indication. Qing-Yi let Naomi go and flew over to the newest member of Team Nyctiel, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

“Good job, handsome. Caerwyn’d be proud.” But her gaze never fell upon him. If she squinted, she could make out the trail of ‘smoke’ left by a disintegrating sword. If she focused, she could make out the sound of a sinuous form snaking through darkness and water. “Let the others know where I went, ok?”

Upon reflection, it was perhaps a bit too much, asking that of someone who may have just broken his back and gotten a concussion, but by then, Qing-Yi was too far into the chase to return. Angie’s map remained in her head, as did a general understanding of her position within it. She would have to catch up to the Eyeless before they disappeared completely.

But she was certain she’d make it.

Flight, after all, was the only thing she was good at.
 

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