Realistic or Modern BORROWED TIME

[Zedalith]

Strixiel

The basement door is tall and lies away from the festivities of their gathering. Dark specters drift in, trespassing toward the blockade and into the darkness beneath the concrete. Formless aberrations gather – some as small as ants, whose movement is more akin to gliding than walking. They slip beneath the tiny crack left under the door, while others simply walk through the door. A familiar cat-legged aberration finds it, tail swishing while it slips into the basement head first. There is a padlock stapling the door to its hinges. A yellow “off-limits” sticky note is pasted to its front, words drawn in pink ink. Behind the door, there is a small set of stairs to step onto until meeting the ground. Too many objects to count linger amidst the dampness and darkness of the basement floor. Boxes of clothing, furniture, abandoned textbooks, and trash. Aberrations gather in front of a secondary door, at least a dozen, small and rat-like–they linger behind the threshold. Their heads are pointed downwards and their glowing eyelids become dim–as if they are praying in reverence. Their heads tilt in rhythm, listening, appreciating, savoring a sound so sweet ... and only heard by them. An odd aura emanated from behind that door. There was a chill frigid enough to summon goosebumps against the most enduring flesh. The aberrations savored it, maws wide and salivating. They took in deep breaths with wiggling noses and eager faces. Some were shy and instead hid within the shadows of the basement. Happy to simply admire from afar with skittish hands and a careful glance.

---

Leolla nods attentively. There is the wiggle of a brow and the shutting of an eyelid. She holds her own chin between the grip of her index finger and thumb while the digits massage against her skin. At the mention of “Harvard,” her eyes grew larger. She mouths the word, tests it on her tongue and her eyes become aflame with a mix of mockery and jealousy. A tiny, dark tar-colored insect blooms from her mouth and crawls onto her cheek. An aberration, small–and doomed to quickly fade. “Your … father?” She beams with narrowed eyes and a sideways smile. “Told...you…to come, here?” Dry laughter grasps her by the lungs and quakes throughout her body. She hugs her arms closer to her own chest as if to stifle it, but the motion fails and it continues, each chirp is long and drawn out. Mockery is dense in each note as if the laugh had been rehearsed and practiced to be laced with as much venom as possible. “Girl, you need to learn how to become a better liar,” she waves the back of her hand against her own mouth and wipes it clean of spittle. Moments pass as she collects herself. “...You serious?” She asks with a scrunched nose and tilted head. A loose hand finds her hip and she turns slightly at the waist. “There’s all of this degeneracy and you show up looking like a choir girl,” she states smoothly. “And you’re surprised when someone is curious? Hell, how did you even make it past the front door? You don’t happen to have a wad of cash stuffed somewhere in there? Paying bribes?” Her eyes narrow in playful suspicion. “Look. This is your first time in a place like this. And it’s obvious that “daddy,” did not, in fact, push you through the door,” Leolla affirms with a confident huff. The taller woman hovers over her and stands at her side. A lanky arm draws nearer, wrapping around her neck but not yet making contact–the arm hovers. Leolla eyes her expectantly. “You’re here for friends are you not? You want to meet a “diverse” crowd. So why don’t you let me show you, have a drink, and loosen up? And if you meet expectations, perhaps I can show you something interesting,” the taller woman laughs lowly and pulls away her arm. She creates distance between herself and Alma–room to breathe. A new melody electrifies the air, one with pulsating beats and ethereal vocals. As her eyes light up with recognition, her body begins to sway. Her humming starts soft but begins to grow as she loses her focus on the rhythm. “Ah, this one,” she murmurs, a genuine smile replacing her mocking expression. Her movements become more pronounced and her hips start swaying. Her arms rise and fall like the limbs of branches swaying amid a gentle breeze. Fingers trace patterns in the air. With a tilt of her head and a beckoning gesture, she invites the young woman to join her. She reaches out, not quite touching Alma, but creating space for her to step into. “Come on, Ms. Harvard,” she calls with a voice that is a blend between a challenge and encouragement.

Nyctiel

In empty places, the vestiges of life lingered. It hid in the misalignment of books and furniture, in the dirt sullying the wooden tiled floor, and in the glass by the fingerprints left behind with careless touches. Many bodies pass through here; it is a building of science and study. The experience of seeing it so absent and devoid of life was like looking into a mirror, from the other side. Dust motes glide through the empty air and reflect the allotted moonlight. Specters of passersby, dead skin peeled from their bodies and left to molt alongside window seals. A book tumbles to the floor from somewhere close by. The noise of its paperback cover thudding is loud. It bounces once, then twice, and a second noise is elicited thereafter, like a shock of lightning before the boom of thunder. The world shatters. A high-pitched whisper slices through the air with a razor's edge. Then came the explosion of crystal that rained down in glittering shards. Tiny cracks and pops continued, smaller now, cascading from the same area where the book fell. They hit the ground and broke again into a myriad of smaller fragments. The walls in the room are long and horse-shoe shaped–curved to allow even distribution of sound. Every noise made here is louder, enhanced by the hard reflective surfaces that coat the floor and ceiling. A stage stands on the furthest end, and atop that stage, is the body of a middle-aged man. He screams with a deep baritone. Their heavy paunch protrudes over their belt and they find themselves thrown to the ground along the edge of a wall. A large classroom auditorium surrounds him and the architecture allows his voice to travel much further than it usually would. Deep red marks trace over his arm and face like dirt roads haphazardly carved into the earth. His glasses hang limply over his ear and sag onto his sternum. He wears a tan sweater over a white dress shirt dyed red from his blood. The lenses of his glasses are missing. The man groans and applies pressure to his stomach. His wounds were shallow and superficial–barring the deep red line that tore through his stomach. He was a biology professor, and he knew what to do in situations like this. Adrenaline compelled him to panic. He batted those voices away, taking advantage of his shredded shirt to begin piecing together a makeshift tourniquet. It was not enough. Crimson slipped through his fingers despite his attempts to put himself together. His hands did not obey him, bloodloss formed a blockage between his thoughts and actions. He cursed his colleagues for letting him search alone, cursed the industry that compelled his friend to their fate. Windows, the projector lens, beakers, and test tubes–all shattered, broken by some phantasmal force. Shaking hands abandoned their attempt to grasp the shredded string wrapped around their waist. There was a glaze that wrapped around his eyes and an understanding lingering behind them. He knew that he only had minutes before his skin greyed from the loss of blood. "DAMN YOU, ACCURSED THING!" He pries the noise from his shrieking neck. His words are hoarse as they leave his throat. Grasping his neck and straightening his spine, he calls out again, "DAMN YOU!" The professor tries a third time, but a fit of coughs cuts him short. He lies there in silence while his hand struggles to clutch the wound, immobile and waiting while his last minutes drip out of him.

Arc 2 : Blood On The Shoreline

 

[Klown]

EVAN BLYTHE

LOCATION: Pacific Heights University, Science Facility
INTERACTIONS: Angie AURS Qing-yi ERode Anna Pilgrim59

The smooth stem of an unlit flashlight leapt along the curves of staunch fingers, swirled with the same buttery ease one might spin a pen. At the helm of the casually adept maneuver is a tall, broad shouldered security guard whose lips whistle an indecipherable tune of heedless pretense. Meanwhile, beneath the shadowing brim of his uniform cap, brown eyes dissected their surroundings with a canine alertness.

The air stilled as if the earth were holding its breath after a deep inhale to feel the pleasant stretch of its lungs. The trees silenced; dust hung unfalteringly a centimeter off-surface. A single, tawny leaf disrupted his course mid-air, and he gently flicked it with his fingers as he waltzed past.

The words “side door” spun within his brain like unspoken madmen ramblings as his gaze coasted the pristine walls of the hollowed rib cage that was the science facility. Even with the clock's hands held hostage, there was an uncanny ebb resonating from the building—from the entire campus. Devilish machinations never yielded the hour.

The guard approached the close perimeter of the structure, ripe with security men just as himself. Or not.

Where the stretch of his gait swallowed the ground, theirs remained stagnantly affixed to it. Their black uniform shirts of minted quality were mocked by his chafe-indulgent replica procured from a salacious looking online ad. While he couldn't vouch for the integrity of his uniform, and was certain it'd tear with ease if prompted, it was convincing enough for the price it fetched.

Evan Blythe, security guard for one night, at your discreet pleasure.

There you are. His hand attempted a tug at one of the side doors, pleasantly surprised as it opened with ease. With a concluding flourish, he pocketed the flashlight on his right hip—the left was occupied by complimentary handcuffs and a flimsy plastic baton that might break itself before anyone else.

Evan glanced at a clock stationed out of reach, its minuscule red hand ticked as the earth exhaled. He sent his gratitude for the responsible party into the air and began searching for his team.

“Evening, Thompson!”

Time stilled again, this time, just for him. He turned around, faced with an older gentleman in that minted quality security uniform. Confusion twists his contours upon meeting Evan’s gaze.

“My bad, son. Thought you were someone else.” He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the years of someone who’d spent a lifetime smiling. His grayed mustache bounced joyfully on his upper lip. A smile seamlessly transitioned onto Evan’s face.

“S’all good sir! I was just headed to Thompson, actually. First night on the job.” He exuded young, boyish charm by the millions. A golden display of enthusiasm he knew most older folk observed fondly. Someone malleable and eager to learn.

“Thompson doing training? You’d learn more stumbling through the campus blindfolded!” The older man barked a laugh that descended into a hacking cough. Evan tried not to wince. “Excuse me.” His throat cleared. “You’ll worry your parents sick takin’ night shifts at a time like this.” Spoken in a tone only a grandfather would know. Lightly critical but not wanting to nag as “that was a job for the missus”.

“Just the cards I happened to draw, unfortunately for them.” Evan shrugged, and the guard huffed somewhere between pity and understanding. Blessed Evan was that he hadn’t encountered someone less naïve.

“Well, I’ll leave ya to it then…” His voice trailed off expectantly, Evan’s heart missed its cue as he noticed the man’s eyes wandering in search of a badge. He’s quick to stretch his arm out for a diverting handshake.

“Evan, sir.” The two firmly shook hands.

“Frankie,” he smiled, bringing his other hand up to pat Evan’s. It was disarmingly paternal and rubbed salt into the welt of Evan’s guilt. “Good luck tonight!”

After exchanging his own sentiments of good fortune towards Frankie, Evan unhurriedly slipped through the door. Hushed words tickled his ears in the manner of a light breeze, and he tracked its source to a perfect crevice beneath some stairs.

In his years of experience, Evan had mastered the silent approach. Each shift of fabric, jangle of zipper, or thudding footfall. Like a ghost consuming his space, it all muted. He idled meager feet behind them against the nook in the wall reserved for the water fountains, arms crossed in a nonchalance no security guard should exhibit over clear trespassers.

“…We’ll hit the basement first, then the lab. Lock down any reflective surfaces, see if we can flush it out." He nodded along with the plan from where he was obscured, fingers absently tracing the ink etched into his arm. With Angie’s final ruling of no splitting up, Evan’s body bent into a crouch to stealth towards the team.

He’d heard, vaguely, of what happened at Wally’s. Ultimately successful, but clearly else had been lost. His absence from the mission was due to a stray A-tier Nyctiel dispatched him to execute.

“You know, the trespassing fine in Cali is a thousand dollars.” He says from behind them.

 

[Clockwork_Magic]

Mei Hayashi
The Inferno Beneath the Mask

Location: Sigma Delta Theta Sorority House
Interactions: Alma ( Gh0stOcean ), Naomi ( Klown ), Gerald ( TheRealAngeloftheStorm )
​

The blaring music and constant chatter and laughter gradually began to decrease in intensity the longer in her pursuit of those twisted forms of otherwise familiar creatures lasted, being led away from the main festivities. The door in front of her, away from the purview of most gathered in the house, gave off an ominous vibe. It felt out of place in this house otherwise full of activity, not helped by the amount of formless, dark wisps flowing into the door. And that cute little sticky note on its surface conveyed a message that was anything but.

Mei took another swig of her drink in an effort to quell her nerves. If any normal person saw something like this, their next move would probably have been to back away and call a ghost hunter, or whoever the fuck one is supposed to call for a haunting, to deal with the mess, and unfortunately for her she was that ghost hunter.

Aside from the sticky note, a single padlock was all that stood in the way of getting to the other side of that door. A lockpicking wizz she was not, but there are more ways to open a lock than having the key or fiddling around with the keyhole, as anyone who probably had their bike stolen from a rack could attest to. Her eyes scanned the vicinity. The coast was clear, time to work her magic.

She held her finger next to where the shackle met the body of the lock, a small and concentrated flame shooting out from her fingertip and blasting the lock. Now all she had to do was just stand there, point at the lock, and wait until the metal was soft enough for the lock to disengage.

...

...I probably look high as shit doing this...

Thankfully, for the sake of her dignity as much as for the sake of avoiding incrimination, after a little while of blasting the lock, the shackle finally popped away from the lock body. Carefully lifting the lock, Mei gently opened the door only to be met with a dark void heading downwards. Her heartbeat slowly began to pick up again as she peered into the darkness before chugging the rest of her beer right then and there. God knows she'll probably need that liquid courage as her descent into the darkness began, shutting the door behind her and shooting a quick message to the rest of Team Strixel, just in case...

> Goin down 2 the basment... if u don't hear from me in like 5 min, I'm dead

A few steps into her dark descent, Mei held out her left hand out, palm facing the ceiling with a tennis ball sized ball of fire sprouting forth from it, making it easier to see the steps until her foot touched the ground again. The chatter and laughter from the party above could hardly be heard now, being relegated to an indistinct drone of muffled human voices at best, and only a few heavy bass lines being the only parts of whatever song they were playing up there to be heard down there every now and then.

Among what she could make out from the light of her fire, the place was a goddamn pigsty. What, was this just Sigma Delta Theta’s personal dump yard or something? But still, compared to what else was in the room, a pigsty was a lot more preferable. She thought it might have been a trick of the light as she was going down the stairs, but now that she had completed her descent onto the basement floor she can see now that was wishful thinking. That the shadows gathered in communion were indeed there and not figments of her imagination. Nor was the almost biting cold that permeated the air as she cautiously got closer to them with the warmth from her fire only marginally helping ward away the cold from her hand and forearm. The mass of gathered aberrations shied away from the the firelight, thankfully not seeing fit to attack her. At least, not just yet.

Her eyes traced the direction of their reverence to another door right in front of them, the sight of which made her skin crawl a bit. She took one step backwards, pulling out her phone once more, her eyes moving back and forth between the phone screen and he door as she typed out another message as she continued to slowly back away.

> Umm… do aberrations usually pray? And it’s kinda cold as shit down here…

Now having put a bit of distance between herself and the congregation, her eyes wandered to some of the other junk in the room. Surely there were some other things among all this trash that could be related to the spree of murders on every PHU student's mind lately, right? As she rummaged around the junk, she kept an eye on the aberrations and her free hand close to her hourglass, just in case shit the fan.

 

[TheRealAngeloftheStorm]

Gh0stOcean Clockwork_Magic Klown

---

GERALD GRAHAM

Gerald heard the girl charging through the crowd behind him as he began to move away from the railing.

The girl had sidled up to him, eyes filled with that familiar gleam of veiled distrust even as she extended a can of beer in his direction. Common enough. Asking questions people didn’t want to answer - and poking around when they didn’t - was his job. Sometimes they would try to turn the tables on him in a fit of pique.

It was strangely refreshing, in a way. This girl seemed much the same; snooping around to hunt the truth. The inconvenient truth, the one that was being buried by the din of the Sigma Delta Theta sorority’s revelry. Bread and circuses. What better way to distract a bunch of students from the suddenly looming specter of death than to keep their eyes closed and hands over their ears?

Some didn’t like having the wool pulled over their eyes, though. There would always be someone who wanted to get to the bottom of things. So here she was, and here he was.

Gerald would give her points, at least; he stuck out like a sore thumb, and he looked like he’d just barged his way into the party.

And no-one came out swinging with a question like that. Well, amateurs did. Or people with no subtlety at all.

Fair enough, he thought. Doublespeak was not something he tolerated overmuch.

Gerald eyed the offering, and despite himself, his lips twitched.

“No,” he said, waving it away, “I don’t drink.” Years of having to haul a drunk Elena to and from the bar and unceremoniously dumping her lays on their front lawns did not particularly endear him to the working (wo)man’s best friend. Her wife had nearly successfully weaned her off her drinking binges, at least, saving it for truly special occasions and not everytime something at work blew up in her face-

Gerald pushed that out of his mind. Exhaled. The cool brush of the hourglass caused him to shiver. Each grain of sand falling far too slowly for his liking in his mind’s eye…

Focus. No time to waste.

“First, if you’re going to ask someone questions, you don’t open with a bombshell like that,” he rebuked her, “You lead them in. Ask how they’re doing. They clam up if you’re going to be a bull in a china shop, running roughshod over everything.”

He leaned against the railing. “Second. Anton Davion, Davion Investigative Services.” he fished the false business card from his pocket and held it between his fingers, black letters barely visible in the light. The hammer of authority he’d browbeaten the clerks with. Strixiel was kind enough to help him settle into his old, worn shoes. “A few people aren’t so keen on waiting for the police to do their job. They want answers.” Gerald peered over his glasses a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes, “just like you. And they want it now.”

There was a familiarity to this situation. A shadow that chased the corners of his mind ceaselessly, never quite out of reach. A man, his sister and justice never served.

How terrible.

He sighed. Gerald leaned back, following the girl’s eyes to the unoccupied couch and table. The thought to message the team occurred to him; a lead had presented itself. But the girl was suspicious, brazen. The phone would have to stay in his pocket. When an opportunity arrived, he’d shoot off a message.

The question of the aberrations gnawed at him, but Gerald put that aside. He would just have to trust that the rest of Strixiel’s agents would have a handle on any of the lower-tier aberrations while he was tied up.

Then he remembered that with Rhys stalking the lower floors and Amandine tied up keeping a hand on Onore’s shoulder, Hayashi would be the only one dealing with them.

Well, the girl’s got firepower on her side, and if things become really tricky…

“You probably have a few more questions for me, Miss Bulldozer,” he grunted, planting a cigar in his mouth and lighting up, “and it’d help both of us if we could discuss this in with a little privacy.” Cackling behind him made Gerald grimace. “And away from this place. Drunkards aren’t particularly pleasant to be around.”

 

[Wyll]

The Sister

Onore
Akir

"-don't even know what I'm doing anymore." She laughed, but it was a sad, pitiful laugh more than anything - as if she was disappointed in herself for letting herself go so much. She blinked, realizing that it seemed like Naomi had just glitched in front of her and all of a sudden had a phone in her hand. "See? I didn't even notice you take out your phone."

She put her hand to her forehead, shaking her head in exasperation - more with herself than with anyone or anything else. "I don't know, Mimi. I just feel like I've been everywhere and yet, somehow can't get anything right. Losing my pens, getting lost, forgetting where I put things...being here..." she slumps against the side of the building, clearly overwhelmed. "It all just feels off. Maybe I'm finally in over my head. Maybe I should just quit everything and stick to being a boring ol' student."

Initially, the statement had been made in gest, but perhaps there was some credit to it. After all, she'd clearly stretched herself too thin. There's no other reason why she should be so disorganized. The more she thought about it, the more the appeal of a quiet and stress-free life allured her. It would be boring and that would be its own kind of madness, but at least she'd finally be able to breathe, something that she can't say she's been able to do the last couple weeks. The pressure had been suffocating and she couldn't explain why.

She looks up at the sky, taking in the stars and allowing herself to get lost in them as her thoughts swim. She'd been feeling the pressure quietly building up, like eyes boring into the back of her mind, threatening to make her go mad. However, as long as she kept it silent, she could ignore it. She could pretend that it didn't matter, she could pretend that it wasn't getting to her. She could pretend.

However, with Naomi's seemingly magical way of getting her to open up, Onore finally came clean and the cord snapped, with little to no mental energy or will on her part to sew it back together. As proof of this, she turned her head, still keeping it pressed against the wall as she looked at Naomi. "People come to places like this to drink and have fun right?" Mauling over her words a little bit, she nodded resolutely. "Screw it. Let's go drink and have fun."

Those are words that would never have left Onore's mouth. Even as she said them, they sounded...***tasted***...wrong in her mouth, but she needed something to fet her mind off of everything and this seemed like the place to do it.

Onore chuckled, hearing Naomi's phone repeatedly go off with notifications. "I see somebody's popular. And here I am texting students who probably won't even give me the courtesy of a thank you." The words were laced with bitterness, traced with resentment - not at Naomi, but at her own circumstances. She stared angrily at her phone, reflecting over everything that had happened in the past couple weeks. With a forced-carefree shrugs, she tossed her phone over her shoulder and grabbed Naomi's hand, pulling her back into the party.

"Come on. I'm tired of losing my mind forcing myself to be the perfect student. I'm going to have one normal college night if it's the last thing I do."

Mentions: Naomi ( Klown )

The Caretaker

Mellor
Akir

He smiles. "Nice to meet you, Sydney." he said as he took her seat, waving at her and then turning back to his fellow agents, shrugging in a 'looks like I'm stuck here' way. He returned Ilia's nod and offered both Elyn and Fifth, warm smiles. "Have fun in there, don't do anything I wouldn't do."

As the other agents left, he had little to do but twiddle his thumbs. However, there was a little trick he'd been practicing since the last mission - a way to be more useful to the team.

He looked around and after making sure that there were no patients and Sydney wouldn't be coming back any time soon, he took a pen in his hands. He looked around once more, making sure that he was in the clear, and then he teleported to one of the waiting chairs. Excitedly, he looked at his hand to see if he'd brought the pen along, but the clattering her heard at the desk told him all he needed to know. He sighed, dejected as he kicked the ground, walking back over to the desk. He'd been able to do it multiple times in a row just yesterday, with items much larger than a pen. He'd even gotten confident enough that he'd thought about finding Naomi to test it out with her.

As he returned to the desk, he gripped the pen in his hand again, closing his eyes and allowing himself to focus on it. He refused any distractions or any other thoughts, until all he could feel was the cold plastic on his skin. He took a deep breath in, held it, and teleported with the breath out.

This time, he didn't even need to check. A small, proud, satisfied smile found its way to his lips as he still felt the pen with him - however, it was now in his other hand. He did find that odd, but he figured it was because he'd turned around when he teleported, since the chairs were opposite him.

His victory is cut short when he has to duck because of the scream that comes from the room with the other agents. Reflexively, he creates portals at either end of the hallway, one leading to the other so whoever tried running in would instantly be warped to the other end. Those in the room would have to deal with whoever was already in the hallway themselves, though. What happened to don't do anything I wouldn't do? He teleports back to the seat and quickly looks around. He can already hear Sydney running back to see what happened and he gets up from the chair, running towards the hallway together with her.

As they approach the hallway, he prepares himself for what is coming. Because of the way the portals completely bend physics, it is very ill-advised to rush through them. And now, he was about to full sprint through one. He wasn't the person he was concerned about, though. Poor Sydney was about to have her world rocked.

The two of them make a sharp turn into the hallway and immediately appear on the other side. Mell, who had prepared for it and had gotten used to his own portals, simply leans over, resting on his knees as he fights the vertigo. Sydney, on the other hand, immediately falls on all fours and wastes no time emptying the contents of her stomach unto the floor.

Feeling a pang of guilt, Mellor picks her up from the floor and carries her over to the bathroom to clean her up. On one hand, it worked because he'd kept her away from whatever was going on in there. On the other hand, he felt terrible for making her so sick.

“The...the boy...” she protested. It seemed as though her mind had not fully wrapped around what just happened, but she had enough of her faculties left to know her priorities. It was admirable.

"I'm sure he's fine. It sounds like he's calmed down now - they probably just woke him up and he got frightened."

Mentions: Ilia ( Zedalith ), Elyn ( lyn. ), Fifth ( Togy )

 

[Klown]

LOCATION: Pacific Heights University, Inside Sigma Delta Theta Sorority House
INTERACTIONS: ONORE Wyll MEI Clockwork_Magic ALMA Gh0stOcean GERALD TheRealAngeloftheStorm

Naomi’s pulse shot with the resurgence of time, a scant millisecond to coat the shock on her face with a sloppy layer of impassivity as Onore’s dialogue continued. Mercifully, her unluck hadn’t urged Onore to inquire over the abrupt manifestation of her phone.

She watched exhaustion wring Onore dry; twisting her into taut knots, uncaring that she was already fraying rope. It yanked and tugged, weights at its ends which Onore’s shoulders bore the brunt of. Then there were the thin, cutting shards of insecurity that caught on discouraged syllables. There was a strum within Naomi. Not of the music stifled beneath the heat of bodies and walls behind them, but of something Onore herself had plucked with an unaware finger.

To quit.

Naomi’s back joined the cool surface of the wall, hands tucked behind her as she indulged the vastness of the night with her friend. But vast it didn’t feel. The known endless stretch of void above them was a lid drawn with needle-pricked holes for stars. Enclosed with a suffocating smog touring from the city. The edges were peeling from the enormity the space tried to compress. Cosmic revelations of life and death, and hotels and owls.

“You could try slowing down,” silence had long been chased away by the bass of loud music that surged through the grass, thudding beneath their feet, and the discordant hollering of impetuous partygoers. But a pretense of it still breaks, like the rupture of musing when someone misjudges their volume in a library. “Do things at your own pace instead of whoever else’s.”

“It’s really easy to get wrapped up in what others’ expectations of you are.” And what you wish they would be. She kept that last sentiment to herself, lock and key. Unsure if she’d even gone heard with how willowy the words escaped her. Whether it was pressure fostered by some torturous aberration, Onore’s own insecurities, or a union of both, Naomi hoped she could offer some respite tonight.

Naomi met Onore’s gaze when from the corner of her vision she saw her head turn.

"People come to places like this to drink and have fun, right?" Naomi grinned and shrugged as if the answer was up to interpretation. Onore’s interpretation concluded that, yes, drink and have fun it was.

Naomi barely chanced a reaction when the brilliant perfectionist discarded her phone and pulled them back into the party with ambitions of enjoying a normal college night. Although delivered innocently, hearing “if it’s the last thing I do” from Onore pinched her chest and twisted deliberately. She squeezed the hand in hers resolutely, wordlessly assuring Onore she’d have all the normal college nights she’d ever need.

They wove through the party, Naomi taking the lead with a confident sway. The energy of the crowd infectious and her grip on Onore secure. She couldn’t risk losing her in the fray. Source less shadows crept in her periphery but were gone the second she glanced, chilling her with doubt.

Their first stop was the kitchen where Naomi dug her hands into a cooler of vibrant jello shots. She passed one to Onore, then threw one back herself for reference. The warm drink seethed down her chest with all the promises of bad decisions to come. With artificial courage in their veins, Naomi swept Onore towards the dancing crowd.

The music wrapped lax strings around her limbs, puppeteering each of her movements with a sultry ebb and flow to the beat of the song. She giggled at Onore’s nervousness, not from ridicule, but empathy. Recounting her first awkward dances where she was so determined to let loose that she overthought every sway and bob. She interlocked their fingers and guided Onore’s arms while lightly bouncing on her toes, purposely exaggerating their movement in hopes that the silliness would scare the notion that they had to look good while dancing to be doing it right.

“There ya’ go!” Naomi encouraged seeing the tension on Miss Perfect melt into unbridled giddiness, her gestures looser and unafraid to claim space. In the gleeful minutes of it, Naomi’s mission slipped from her thoughts. She spun her and Onore around, the two laughing at absolutely nothing, Naomi singing along to shake off that clinging prick of wrongness.

Then a bruise is punctured and bleeding anew.

Even if Naomi had never known her, she’d be impossible not to notice. Alma Rhys with her stark white hair and elegant beauty. Her maroon sweater vest was a sore thumb among crop tops and butterfly straps. She looked like a cutout of an academic magazine for private catholic schools. The outfit complimented her, but it was the last thing anyone would wear to a sorority party at a college where the beach was a mere stroll away.

Naomi was horrified; anxiety made a plaything of her heart and bounced it like a rubber ball between restless fingers. Who was Alma with? Had she seen her already? Should she go up and pretend she knew her, or pretend to be a stranger? They hadn’t exactly talked since—

There’s a cold splash of liquid against her side. Her entire body turned rigid as she processed the flurry of bustle and apology beside her, then the stinging scent of vodka that wafted up from her clothes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” If looks could kill, half the room would be eviscerated in one swift, bloody shower.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you there!” The grating drunken laugh. The clear insincerity. The guy was surrounded by people, and he just so happened to not see the one with bright pink hair. As if that pathetic display served as an adequate apology, he went back to rough housing with his buddy, who no-doubt played a role in the accident.

“What, did you have fucking piss in your eyes?” She hissed, swiping the booze from her arm and spraying it onto him with a flick of her wrist. They didn’t seem to be paying attention anymore, however, and stumbled off. Naomi grimaced as she unpeeled her wet shirt from her side, increasingly discomforted. “Do you know where the bathroom is, Rey?”

 

[lyn.]

Elyn silently stepped back as Mellor took charge, watching with silent interest as he spoke to the receptionist. The woman's attitude changed quickly, and Elyn, still reeling from her former embarrassment, couldn’t decide if she was envious or upset by how quickly he had changed the woman's mind. Not that she had any chance in the first place. Charming people is not one of her talents, no matter how hard she tries.

She can blame Ilia for her mishap. Why sister, of all things?

She gave Mellor a quick wave as they left. Nerves filling her brain as they made the walk to Miles’ room. Already, she and Ilia had messed up. Why leave them to interrogate someone as well? Fifth had been silent the whole time, and Elyn’s inability to read him left her to assume he just wasn’t interested. Which left a girl who couldn’t act convincing for shit, and a man who apparently had no idea how to communicate with a receptionist.

Elyn let her eyes wander around the room as Ilia began speaking to Miles. The smell of saltwater had followed her since the entrance of the hospital. From the moment Glauciel had mentioned a beach, she had turned her nose away. She had frequented a beach enough when she was alive to tell she hated it. Sand got everywhere, and she hated the feeling of wet clothes on her skin. Just thinking about getting in the water made a shiver run down her spine. Regardless, if the aberration was there, she’d have no choice.

Miles’ screaming caught her off-guard, too lost in her thoughts. Her back hit the wall as she stared at him with wide eyes. She’d been called many things, but a demon was not one of them.

Her thoughts raced as Ilia calmed him down. Should she leave? Should she stay? If just looking at her caused such panic, surely her being there wouldn’t help? Or would it? Why is she here again?

Elyn let her impulse take control and took a step away from the wall. “Do I look like the- demon that hurt you?”

Miles was resolute in looking everywhere but Elyn. `"I - yes? No, NO, you do not look like her. Sorry, I... I'm just feeling jumpy, and, well, your hair, it's just as long as hers. And the shape. That's all..." A self-conscious hand raised to her head. Oh god, please don’t let a hideous aberration have my haircut.

His eyes turned to Ilia. "How can I help you? What do you need? I'm sorry for freaking out, but you surprised me!” She felt a little offended. He had been screaming at her a moment ago. Why does Ilia get the apology?

“Who’s her?” Elyn asked, and Miles finally looked back at her, albeit his gaze on the wall.

Slowly, he sat back down on his bed, turning towards the open window. “I only saw her for a second. Yet I can’t shake that face from my eyes.” He brought a fist up to his chest. “I see her still.. In the wall. Across the bedpost… in every reflection. Ruddy skin and bright green eyes. I heard her, before I saw her, and then…”

Sunken eyes finally met Elyn’s, and his terrified gaze made a shiver run down her spine. “I felt it pulling on me. Wrapping around my limbs and holding them hard enough to bruise.” He held his arm up, revealing the red marks that stretched across his wrist. Elyn couldn't hide her cringe.

Elyn took a few steps forward to get a better look, unaware of the man's stuttering breaths and widening eyes. “I couldn’t move, couldn’t fight. I only felt those vines drag me forward.” His breathing became more erratic, and for once, Elyn didn’t have any trouble understanding the look of fear and panic on his face.

“But then I thought of my dad. Thought of home. I imagined the look on my mother’s face when they’d drag up my corpse.” Another loud, heaving breath. “I was able to move after that, and I managed to swim back to shore…”

Elyn remained silent as she sunk in the information. She was afraid to speak again. The tense air around Miles left warning of another freak out she did not want to be responsible for again.

glauciel

elyn

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  Zedalith Togy Wyll

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[AURS]

angie yeon ;

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  mood

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  tense.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  long-sleeved top, fitted leather midi skirt, chunky dr. martens boots.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  pacific heights university, science facility.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Klown ERode Pilgrim59 Zedalith
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

The fluorescents stuttered overhead, casting a blanched glow across the room—like insects trapped between glass panels.

Evan's lilt—winded as a plastic bag—is the ink splatter, the crumpled paper that desecrates an otherwise sterile state of mind. He'd fit right in anywhere else.

A frat party. In her mother's backyard, asking for the Wi-Fi while he used her pool or something. Right now, every analogy she had locked and loaded fell short of the exact degree of frustration that she expels from her nostrils just hearing him.

Angie pressed her tongue to her cheek, chewed it before she spoke. Like it or not, this was work. The team was a delicate ecosystem, and she couldn’t afford to throw it off balance.

“You dressed the part. Suits you.” Her words were a drawl, a deliberate contrast to the urgency thrumming in her veins. Flexing her shoulders, then her neck, the stretch sent a sharp, familiar tension through her back. That old, weathered knot between her shoulders—a stubborn souvenir from years spent lifting bodies, stitching wounds, pulling people back from the brink.

Maybe it was the company that exacerbated the pain—a reminder of the endless dance with death she'd signed up for. Friends included.

“Need a sparknote sesh, Blythe?” Swatting invisible dust, the urge to pace surged up, but she fought it down, cracking her knuckles instead—subtle, controlled.

Her thoughts drifted to Phobos, her cat. So content and aloof in the way only cats could be. He always knew when she was about to head out on a job. He’d watch her from the counter with that debonair, judging air, not a care in the world, but just enough presence to remind her that someone, somewhere, might actually care if she didn’t come back.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she said, the taut smile stitched into her lopsided lips not quite reaching her eyes. Muscle memory kicks in as she pats herself down—makes sure everything's right where she needs it, to fit in with an instinct that just didn't know when to die; this is still your job. You save people—except this time, there wasn’t a patient waiting down that hallway. No screaming alarms, no blood slicking the floor. Just a slow, creeping unease, inching up her spine like fingers tapping on glass.

The anxiety sat in the soft cracks behind her guts, cool and quiet like butter that clogged arteries, blocked veins—faint, but soon…impossible to ignore.

Ilia would handle this differently.

He’d saunter through this mess like it was some grand performance, smooth and unbothered, pleased with himself even. Angela's jaw tightened.

This is the best she can do.

Evan, in the glory of his infinite, totally original, never before documented genius—adds salt to injury.

She didn't know that about California. Now, she's not sure if she cares, or if she wants to break a foot off in his ass for bringing it up right now.

“That so?” Angela didn’t turn, but the edge in her voice was unmistakable. “Then I dare you to fuck this up, Blythe. Just a little bit of stick-to-itiveness–”

Angela’s head snapped toward the sound—a scream, deep and guttural, echoing through the still corridors like the gasp of a dying animal. It was followed by a sharp, unmistakable crash—glass. Shattering, like a thousand windows raining down in glittering fragments. The sound bounced through the halls, carried by the cold, hard surfaces, louder than it should’ve been. She recognized the acoustics—everything in these sterile science buildings was designed to amplify, to project. Every noise was heightened, every shadow stretched further than it had any right to.

It slugged her square in the gut, but her heart didn’t race. Instead, her pulse settled into a slow, steady beat, willfully calculated. She thought of her father, his concerts in those grand, echoing halls where every note seemed to hang in the air, suspended in time. Here, though, it wasn’t music—it was chaos. And Angela was all too familiar with the kind of silence that followed a scream like that.

Angela’s mind clicked into EMT mode, triaging the situation before they even reached the source. No room for argument, her feet already carried her forward, even as her mind raced to catch up. “We need to move.”

“Basement’s too far off,” Angela said, eyes narrowing as she gauged the distance. “Sound’s bouncing. That was close. First floor, maybe.” The scream had come from the auditorium. She could feel it in her bones.

As they rounded the corner, the smell hit her—blood, sharp and metallic, already thick in the air. “Shit.”

The professor’s body lay crumpled at the base of the stage, a heavy smear of crimson trailing down his shirt. His glasses were gone, shattered on the floor around him. Glass, everywhere. Beakers, windows—anything reflective had been obliterated, as if something had torn through it all at once.

Angela’s eyes flickered to the broken shards glinting in the light, her heartbeat a dull thud in her ears. Reflections.

She knelt beside the man, her hands moving with the same practiced efficiency she’d honed years ago in the back of an ambulance. Gloves.

Pulse—weak, but there. Barely.

The tourniquet was a mess, sloppy. He's a dead man counting. She knew it before she even touched him; but she needed his final moments lucid.

Angela leaned in closer, her jaw tight. “Dammit, stay with me! What did you see?”

no song linked

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ERode]

AURS Pilgrim59 Klown

More about glass than mirrors?

“Smash ‘em then?”

Another college prank, but maybe a bit more costly. Universities like those could afford it though. Angie instructed a group effort this time, no doubt due to how messy things had gotten when Nyctiel-team chose to pursue two Aberrations at once, while Evan, a newer face, seemed to be making up for the attitude that had been missing since Nick was transferred to a different squad. Qing-Yi waved at the faux security guard. Trespassing was a crime, but that was all there was.

And it would be forgiven, if they could save a life in the process.

A scream like the shattering of glass, incomprehensible howls echoing off in the distance. Qing-Yi’s eyes flickered, not towards the direction of the duress, but to the student who had been once-frozen in the hallways. They were gone though, either down another corridor or inside a classroom, and so the Agents were free to move at speeds that defied understanding. Out from the stairwell, past rows of lockers, spinning around the corner, pushing through the scent of blood and fear that thickened in the air, then catapulting through heavyset doors to take steps four at a time, towards the portly man bleeding out amidst a thousand scattered shards.

Angie knew herself. Already feeling the pulse, already judging the pallor of the skin. But in the seconds between a person passing out and a person passing away could become an eternity if all the Agents collaborated.

Was it fine to do the impossible, if no human was awake to witness it? Would it be breaking the veil, or would it be a random miracle?

Qing-Yi held up her hourglass, watching the sand fall upwards as she turned it upside down.

“We have time, Angie. Can he be saved?”

Angela's fingers pressed down hard on the wound, the slick rush of blood slipping through her grip like water. “We can stop the clock—but it’s up to him if he makes it.”

She nodded in response, turning towards the shattered glass around them. She'd stop time when Angie got a response from him then. For now?

"Da ge," the woman waved towards Evan, "Mind sweeping up the glass? Bit of a hazard right now."