ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴅᴛᴇᴀᴍ ᴏғ ʜᴀᴅʀɪᴇʟ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hadrielmods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2018-04-21 10:47 am
hadrielmods) wrote in hadriel_logs2018-04-21 10:47 am
Event Log: Tears of Joy
Who: All characters participating in the event
What: The event log for the Tears of Joy event
Where: All over the city
When: April 21st-April 30th
Warnings: Lots and lots of regret
What: The event log for the Tears of Joy event
Where: All over the city
When: April 21st-April 30th
Warnings: Lots and lots of regret
Sorrow's back! That's great, except for the sudden wave of sorrow and regret blanketing the city. And boy is it strong. It's hard to think about anything except all the times you've hurt someone, let someone down, failed. It's hard to get through your day while your mind is full of those thoughts, but you have to, right? Otherwise you might be letting someone else down.
Everything would feel a lot better if you could just find a way to make up for what you've done. A way to earn forgiveness. Do you deserve it? Maybe not, but if you can figure out the right thing to do, it won't matter - you'll make up for all the wrongs you committed and everything will be fine. So what will you do? Clean your friend's entire house? Hunt monsters and leave their heads at your ex's doorstep, like a particularly upsetting cat? Or is there something else even more drastic you can do?
Or maybe this isn't really affecting you at all - but someone else feels like they've wronged you, and they want to make it up to you. Are you going to take advantage of this? Pretend it's not happening? You do still feel kind of annoyed by that thing they did that time...► This log covers April 21st-April 30th.
► Feel free to make your own logs, as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If you decide the only way to make up for what you've done is the final solution, please let us know here.
Speakeasy. | OTA
At least this time she's ready, leaving her phone out of reach to avoid any urges to be open and honest about whatever doubts that plague her. So she uses work as a distraction, hanging out at the Speakeasy more than home, cleaning or preparing new stocks she has brewed and distilled.
On the 21st, however, Rey is taking a break in the seated area, laying down over the cushioned booth facing the soft lamp dangling over the table. For those who enter, all they see at first is her hanging over the edge, eyes staring at nothing.
On her stomach is a pale, green-tinted cyclopsed cat with three legs, curled up and head lazily flopped over her chest. Tripod must have followed her to the Speakeasy from home, sensing that she would need the companionship, because the strange mutant creature hasn't left her side since.
"What do you call someone who's made it to one hundred years old?" Rey muses, whether to herself or to someone passing by. Hard to tell with that blank, faraway expression. She then raises both hands over her face, muffling her own voice: "Fuck, what am I doing with my life?"
For the rest of the week, she can mostly be found occupying the Speakeasy in general. Chances are, if she's feeling like drinking these feelings away, she won't be the only one.
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It's only a small lie, as he doesn't know them personally, but whatever. Law prowls right up to her, his face mostly hidden between the ever-present hat and the black feathers around his shirt collar, but when he gets close it's clear he hasn't had a good couple of days either. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than usual, and accompanying them is a distinct raw, red tinge common to those who've been crying for a while. No tears now, though. He stops close enough to set a hand on the table in front of Rey. "Forgive me, for being slow to look in on you. I should have been more proactive."
There, is that enough regret? The fact that he says anything at all is entirely Sorrow's fault. The rest is private.
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Tex takes a spot next to the spot Rey is occupying, sitting carefully down on the barstool, and nods her head in Rey's direction.
"I'll have what she's having."
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21st
good for her, living a life with so much regret that even the gods can't make it that much worse. but as to Rey's question...?]
I'd call them lucky. [as to the rest of her question] You're running a bar and providing a service for those who need it. And there are plenty who need it.
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(cw: rape, incest, underage, drugs, prostitution)
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28thish
But even he has his demons. The original Nick had a thirst for vengeance that the synthetic one hopes to one day sate; he has been at the forefront of some disappearances in town, especially when it comes to those who would threaten his family. The secret weighing so oppressively upon him now is what he discovered while working with Safronov to get Rey back: his memory is limited, ultimately faulty, and he will eventually forget all he has now, all he has ever known. Those he met will vanish from his mind as old memories are overwritten by new ones. He can remember Jenny Lands' face as if she were standing right before him, but he can't remember the brother who helped him escape from the Institute. Are those memories from the real Nick protected somehow? Will what life he's built for himself since then slowly be erased, lost in time as he fights to maintain his identity?
Nick stops, finally bringing his eyes from the ground: his patrol has led him to the Speakeasy. It's late enough that Rey should be heading home soon -- maybe he can catch her before she does.
He pushes the door open and steps inside, his concerns worn into the creases of his face, his footsteps heavier than they ought to be. "Rey?"
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akira kurusu | ota
RE-CARMDEMPTION.
WILDCARD
Re-Carmdemption
Akira-kun! I never thought you would want to come and visit someone like me. I am so blessed with good luck that I wouldn't be surprised if several people I knew suddenly dropped dead today!
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cw: suicidal talk slightly I am so sorry
all good, bring it on!
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SORROWDYNE.
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sorrowdyne
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sorrowdyne
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ignis scientia. | closed to noctis.
What business as usual means is the Guard watch, and a patrol later in the day.
The watch itself passes without incident, though he's glad to have it done with. It's later, walking the boundary of the city with far too many of his own thoughts that he finds he has to stop, sitting down carefully on a piece of unclaimed masonry. He takes his glasses off and rubs a hand over his face as the things which had been little more than loud whispers over the course of the day start to rise into shouts.
What use is he, after all, if after all of it he isn't going to be able to protect Noctis? What use was the oath he made, and kept for all those years if he's going to have to give up the most important person in his entire world. It's things he tries not to think of too hard. Things he doesn't want to think of because pondering them solves nothing, changes nothing, and he doesn't need Noctis to question any more than he already has. He doesn't want him to. There's nothing about the answers he'd have to give that he wants to utter out loud.
He thinks he's alone. He's very sure, so there's nothing hidden in the way his hands shake or the quiver in his breathing while he's assaulted by nothing more than his own guilt.]
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It's crippling, almost, and the ache of it hurts his heart, especially so when he discovers the cause of it, the roiling unending cycle of reproach and regret, soft whispers like claws digging into wounds that are barely healed, as if punishing him for the good things that had happened to him in his weeks here.
His best and closest friend; his Ignis and his Luna, alive and well but perhaps the powers that be have come to collect, because surely Noctis may never have anything good for long. He finds Ignis (the man looks like how Noctis feels), observes the way his hands quiver, and he wonders if he feels it, too. ]
Hey.
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Alucard Emery | open & closed
It had hit him like a wave, crashing over him and soaking through him. Despite his easygoing nature, Alucard has always been a man to carry the memory of his regrets around with him, just underneath the surface of his smile. Like an old wound, the ache has a tendency to come and go, triggered by his environment in much the same way. By the people around him, or under these particularly cruel conditions, one particular person in fact. By Rhy.
For the most part he has been able to stamp down on it. Because spending time with the other man is fundamentally better than being without him, for all of the 'might have beens' it leaves floating between them. But upon Sorrow's awakening, Alucard's regrets are nearly too much to bear and so he disappears from the little room they share in the spire and turns to coping in the only way he knows how.
Fingers closed around the stem of a wine glass, he swirls the dark liquid about before taking another hearty swig. This is definitely not his first drink. Nor will it be his last. Not if he has anything to say about it. Is he hiding here, rather than facing his problems as he should? Maybe so. But it's always been his coping mechanism in the past, and no one's ever stopped him before.
He doesn't look up at the movement across the table, but he knows he's left an empty seat there and in all honesty, he'd rather have company than not.
"They say people drink to drown their sorrows," he quips, "but this is taking it in a rather literal sense of the word..."
SPIRE 3 - CLOSED TO RHY
Alucard had snuck out of their little apartment with barely a word to the other man -- another regret for him to drown along with the rest of them as he orders himself a drink or three or four at the bar that he's been set up in for the better part of the last few days now. In fact, he's barely spoken a word to Rhy at all, save the bare essentials. The pair of them tip-toeing around each other even worse than usual -- and the fact that that is a usual yet another regret to add to the list. And Rhy had been hiding too. Hiding away from him, hiding himself away from him, despite the truth that was there each time Alucard looked into those golden eyes. If Rhy could not come to him to talk at the best of times, why should he hope that he should bare his soul to him now.
So Alucard had run away. Run away and turned to drink. But after a long, lonely day at the bar and perhaps one or two too many glasses of wine than he should have had, he felt no better than he had before. This is going to be a long few days if this Sorrow keeps this up.
Stumbling into their little shared apartment, Alucard makes a beeline for his room and nearly trips over Esa as she runs to greet him at the door. Bending to pet her as he closes it behind himself, stroking his hands against her cheek before scooping her up and burying his face in her long white fur. Esa lets out a plaintive mew and he sets her down on the floor, turning back to the main room to fetch her something to eat -- might as well make sure the cat's fed, even if he starves himself -- and finds himself face to face with Rhy as he exits his room across the way.
spire 3
And honestly, it's only made things worse. Rhy's regrets seem innumerable, countless, impossible to ignore, and Alucard has a very prominent place on that list. It's difficult to put a finger on exactly what those regrets encompass. After all, Alucard was the one who left. Perhaps Rhy regrets that he couldn't do more, that he wasn't enough. Perhaps he regrets how it ended. Perhaps he only regrets the loss of something, someone, that he cared for so much.
Whatever it is, just looking at Alucard hurts.
He hears Alucard enter, and thinks that means it's time to leave himself. Rhy times it carefully, giving Alucard enough time to get into his room before exiting his own - except, of course, he didn't think about Esa. He didn't think that Alucard perhaps hadn't disappeared into his own room yet.
Rhy freezes for just a moment, then pulls a smile onto his face, as real as he can make it. It would fool someone who didn't know him. "Ah, there you are."
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a bar
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I'm so sorry, DW ate the notification!
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Kaiba | OTA + Will match formatting
Having never experienced a god’s resurrection, Kaiba was wholly unprepared for the wave of regret that hit him with the force of a tsunami. Sorrow, and its expression of guilt, had been Kaiba’s constant companion for years. It felt like the glue he used to piece his heart back together after Atem had shattered it. Even that familiarity, didn’t protect him from the onslaught of memories.
He had done so much leading up to Death T to secure his legacy that there was no way he could ever atone. How could you atone to those were already dead? What about those tortured into insanity? You could only atone to the living. Of the living the most important person he had to redeem himself to would always be Mokuba. The only possible way to atone was to make sure he safe and happy.
That was why he hadn’t slept in 2 days. Everything he’d built for them was back in Domino. He had no choice but to start over. The first step involved tearing apart every appliance in the apartment he shared with Mokuba to see what materials it had and how they could be repurposed. Neighbors and people walking by may be able to hear the increase in activity and cursing at all hours of the day.
B: Speakeasy
In order to hide the fact that he wasn’t sleeping from Mokuba, he had to leave their apartment at least once or twice a day. The first few days after the wave of sorrow hit he can be found sitting at alert at the speakeasy frantically creating apps on his phone, or pulling apart a laptop or duel disk to see what parts could be spared without affecting functionality. After several days, the manic energy has disappeared as his body is just too tired to keep it up, but the actions remain the same.
C: Wildcard
(Anything you like. Just let me know when during the event it occurs.)
☆ speakeasy ☆
Any other day, Atem wouldn't have cared, he would have pushed for an answer, after all, Kaiba could take it, right? But instead, he let him be, and would limit himself to put a glass of icy water on the table and walk off to work around the Speakeasy instead. It was probably his own guilt acting up.
Until he saw the change of demeanor.
It is noticeable, even if Kaiba hadn't been coming and going in an apparent outburst of erratic energy, Atem was going to notice how his friend... his rival was starting to look like a deflated balloon. He knew that look, and he knew what it meant and he didn't like it. It is a slight reminder of what he had to go through with Rey, and he wasn't going to let Kaiba fall into that void.
Fortunately for the CEO, Sorrow's resurrection had mostly spared the Pharaoh. It still was pushing him to apologize for whatever he told him during the feast, but his own guilt could wait, Kaiba came first.」
Kaiba, you look terrible. Have you been sleeping?
「He leans over a little, trying to take a look of his rival's face as he gives him the most annoying smirk he can possibly pull, to Seto's standard. This time it isn't a glass of simple water what he sets on the table, but a lager, served in a very tall, almost elegant glass, cold and ready to be drank.
He's gonna make him react, he has to.」
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speakeasy, after the 25th
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speakeasy; whenever but we could say earlier if you want to play manic kaiba?
speakeasy; Let's go earlier, since everyone else is later
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Ronan Lynch | streets
But even still, he has to be careful. His guilt is dangerous. His guilt has casualties.
So Ronan has managed it, like he manages the rest of his emotions- crudely, and with a lot of curse words. But it works, and it's working now, and this hot day finds Ronan dragging a long piece of plywood down the street with a low grumble and a few muttered expletives. It looks as if it had been ripped off of one of the new buildings, already pillaged for parts.
If you come across him later, you may find him building... something, anyway. Something out of wood, something triangular, with a hammer and nails and enough splinters to christen his project with a few drops of blood.
Yeah- it's a ramp. Maybe the nearby moped gives it away.]
Hey-
[Ronan nods toward you, casual passerby on the street, frowning with a nail hanging out of the corner of his mouth.]
You don't look like you have anything better to do. C'mere.
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it is not unlike luna to wander. at her heels, pryna and umbra remain close with careful looks to their mistress and attempts to figure out her current mindset so better to help but even luna is unsure of her feelings. though, in truth, when has that not been the case? she has constantly (and privately) warred with the two sides of her that have longed to exist.
there is the oracle, a healer and the woman who wished to save the world. the oracle who learned as a child that her future was to ultimately die so that the world might live. the oracle who readily accept that place in the world and fought to give the chosen king all that he would need to see that miracle to fruition. the one that knew it was selfish to wish to remain her, to wish for noctis to remain at her side and hold her hand as warmly as he had.
yet it warps into the guilt of the woman that wanted nothing more than to be with the one she loved. to live with him peacefully, together and in a world where darkness did not linger in the hearts of man nor threatened to overtake everything. the woman that wished to cry, laugh and be open in ways that simply could not be shown by the oracle. the woman who, like all, yearned to be loved for who she was even if that was not so clear. even now, perhaps worse yet, they are warring but the voice is a distraction. a welcomed one too. )
Did you need help with something? ( she asks, a bit curious as both canines look over just as curious. )
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caboose | ota
That also means that when the feelings are too strong, he stops wandering. Wherever he happens to be. He's just...there. A solid-blue figure in armor, staring at the ground. Or some rubble. Or the sky. Just feeling things.
Because he understands more than he lets on. It's been easier to not, because that means that he has to admit things have changed. Maybe that would mean he would have to change, and he can't do that. After everything he and the guys have been there, there has to be a constant, and that is his job. They are aggravated and annoyed and frustrated to tears by him, but there is always an undertone of relief that he recognizes, because hey, Caboose is here and being himself, so things can't be that bad.
So he doesn't think about how Tex 'left'. Both times. He doesn't think about Andy, or Sheila. He doesn't think about how he lost Church, and then he lost Church again, and got him back, but then he left again, and when they had him back? The last flicker of memory he has before coming here to Hadriel is a note of uncertainty. No. That's not right. Church had seemed like he was getting ready to say something he really didn't want to say and that--
He has them all here. His team, at least. The others must be coming at some point, surely. Even Tex is back now. It doesn't make sense to be sad and yet it's still there, crushingly obvious and unnmoving. Like there's this whole mass of things he just hasn't dealt with because he decided not to and now? It's all tumbling out on top of him. And he's not sure where his wandering took him, and he's acutely aware of how alone he is in the middle of this strange city they've turned up in.
What if he ends up saying goodbye to them again? What if they go away and don't come back? What if...
He's still got Freckles, clutched tight like a security blanket in his arms, and for once? He's remarkably quiet in that big blue helmet of his. ]
This is so sad omg
Caboose? Are you okay?
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no sad big boy
alll the big sad boy
;-;
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Whistler | Closed to The Girl
Hey, uh, could you help me out with something?
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Depends on what you need. Long as all my limbs are kept in place, sure. What's goin' on?
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Agent Texas ⋆ OTA & closed
Tex isn't one to dwell on her thoughts or feelings. When something affects her deeply, she internalizes it, pushes the guilt down until it can no longer be quashed, and then does her best to keep those around her from knowing.
Sometimes this doesn't go so well.
On this occasion, the sadness is overwhelming in a way that Tex finds difficult to quantify. She's not angry about it—that would be easier to deal with—but she decides to find something to hit and punch anyway. Lashing out and doing something physical will help her dismiss the emotions roiling within her, she thinks.
She doesn't have time to figure out if there's a gym where she can work out—she just starts up a martial arts routine right then and there, punching, kicking, twisting. In some ways it helps, but in the way that matters—the way where it keeps this weird sensation from stinging her eyes, a feeling that she quickly comes to realize is her body deciding to react by crying—it doesn't. Tex keeps at it until the tears threaten to spill over, and then she makes a sound of exasperation and rubs her face with her hands. She's not a crier, goddamn it. At least, until she'd been put in a human body, she never would have thought so.
If Tex notices someone's nearby, she'll do her best to compose herself, but otherwise, she's going to be embarrassed to be found with her fists rubbing her teary eyes.
⋆ Closed to close CR
Tex hasn't been around long, not long enough to recognize it when the gods she'd railed against upon her arrival are affecting her mood. She just knows that lately she's been wracked with guilt and bad feelings about everything she'd done to endanger those around her, especially the members of Blue Team who live in the house where she's been brought. At first, when these thoughts come to her, she tries to pass it off, but the more likely she is to be around one of them, the more likely she finds herself drawn to talk to them about it.
The fact that her silence after approaching them may be a bit unnerving doesn't escape her.
Because of this, she's likely to start with a short huff of a sigh and then a statement like, "This isn't easy for me, okay?" before really launching into her apology.
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That ragged breath, eyes closed, breathing heavily through her nose. Time and again it's like that, the overwhelming memories of everyone she has let down, hurt them, let them get hurt. It's why she doesn't even notice Tex at first, lost in the memory of the last time that she saw York alive, of their fight, of leaving him there with his lighter, like he hadn't mattered...
It is the huff that draws up those wild eyes, whites around the green, and that deer in the headlight expression before she slowly recognizes who it is. Even there... She'd failed Texas as well.
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Michael Munroe | Closed | CW: murder discussion probably
[Michael is practically literally sitting on his hands. He wants to do something so badly it's almost like- It's a lot like the Visitor's cajoling, honestly. Except it isn't a screeching insistence in his head, it's coming from his own emotions, his own brain, begging him to do what has to be done. It's like a primal urge, a need.
He has to tell them what he's done. He has to confess. He can't make up for murder, but he has to do what he can. Whatever it takes. And it starts with the confession.
His phone is lying on the table, out of his reach. Harlan's doing, so that he wouldn't, well, do what he's planning to do. But Harlan's distracted, because they're eating lunch, and Michael is pretty sure he could just-
He suddenly springs out of his chair and makes a grab for the phone.]
For Carlisle:
[Somehow, at some point, Michael manages to slip away from both his job and his would-be handler, and makes his way to Carlisle's apartment. He knows he shouldn't, but at this point, the compulsion is too much to completely resist. Maybe he can get away with confessing something not as huge?
He guesses he'll see how it goes.
Michael knocks on the door and tries not to look too suspicious, but, well, he always looks suspicious.]
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Ah, Michael. What- what brings you here today? Your, ah. Roommate isn't poisoning you again, is he?
[Hopefully, Michael's paranoia abated just as Glacius' did; Carlisle's has unfortunately persisted, as his wasn't born of some god's influence. He's just always paranoid.]
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Dr. Lee Rosen | Closed to Michael
In this instance it grabs fast to the sight of Michael working across the room, spilling thoughts of their shared dream experience and with that thoughts of his wronged patients...the patients HE'S wronged....
Loudly he clears his throat, half to get Michael's attention, half in a last ditch effort to pull himself out of this quicksand]
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That won't stop anyone from telling him things, though. Or, you know, asking.
At the moment, Michael is distractedly filling out reports, trying not to think too hard about Rosen being in the room. He should tell him what he meant back when they had that dream together. He should tell him what that was all about.
Except no, he shouldn't. God. He's busy trying to distract himself when Rosen clears his throat. Michael flinches slightly, then turns.]
Uh. Did you... need something?
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Hayden | OTA
[On these days of incredible sorrow, Hayden can be found on any given time collapsed face-first in the dirt, sobbing. It's not really uncommon, coming from him, the sobbing or the being collapsed, but maybe the fact that they're happening simultaneously is concerning. Or maybe you're trying to walk and he's become the smallest snorlax in your path. Either way, he has Something on his mind.
Please be gentle. The boy does not respond well to being kicked.]
/divebombs
Hayden? Whatever is the matter?
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sweet CHILD
wet leaking child :'(
come here, leaking baby
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Harlan Halliday | open & closed | cw: murder/torture discussion
[This event is the last thing Harlan needs right now. He could say that for most events, but they've been getting worse lately, haven't they? Apparently this is just what happens when gods are ressurected, and really, Sorrow coming back will be a good thing in the grand scheme, but right now it's making him feel like garbage and he'd like to take a pass, please.
In an effort to get out of the house, he's milling around near the Silent Hill area, both because he's lowkey trying to avoid people and because this area is just neat. It should spook him more than it does, maybe. He's pretty sure he could take out whatever he'd find in there. Hope would just bring him back if he couldn't, anyway. But being brought back to life doesn't necessarily heal any psychological trauma, so he'll save that particular expertiment for another day.
He can be found sitting on a bench and messing around with... two phones??? Why do you have two phones, HH?]
the bakery - apr 28 - closed to delmar
[It's been over a week since this bullshit started and, of course, it's shown no signs of letting up. What the fuck?
He's done a decent job of keeping his shit together, at least. It hasn't been easy. He's thought about skipping town again, but then he'd just be leaving his friends to deal with this on their own, and he's not about to do that. It wouldn't be fair. But, then again, dumping on them to make himself feel better isn't fair either, so... He's been bottling. And trying to go about business as usual when he can.
Which is why he's at the bakery, helping Delmar close up shop for the day. He thought being here would help. It's, like, impossible to be upset at the bakery. Or around Delmar, for that matter, and Harlan figured he could play sounding board to whatever Delmar's feeling guilty about and that would be ample distraction from his own problems.
He was wrong, of course. The unapologetic positivity of this space has been slowly suffocating him all day, but it's not like he could just up and leave when he'd told Delmar he'd be around to help. It's like the mirror event all over again--it's inescapable, an itch he's constantly tempted to scratch--except this time he can't just lock the fucking thing in a closet and call it good. He has a lot of practice in metaphorically locking up these kinds of thoughts, but with the influence of a god and everyone else in town oozing self pity, this has been a losing battle from the start. He's overestimated his ability to muscle through this.]
I'm not as good of a person as you think I am.
[He says it almost absently as he wipes down the counter, his voice flat. This is a bad decision, but he's resigned to it. He should've told Delmar a long time ago, anyway. He deserves to know what he's signed up for.]
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When Harlan speaks, Delmar had been wrapping up what was left of a berry pie to take home with him. His hands go still on the plastic wrap and he peeks over, confused]
What are you talking about, Harley?
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u kno
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Ravine. | OTA
Ducking her head, threads of long black hair sliding over her face, she removes the shades and pockets them inside her coat, allowing her to better see the weary shape swaying in the fog. It's difficult to make out the full details silhouette in this distance, but the allure is oddly calming despite the unavoidably foreboding ambiance surrounding it. After a while, that silhouette appears to be a copper-haired young woman in a long and heavy dress, though her features are indistinct between the distance and haze. Somehow, in her silence, she seems to be beckoning, and yet...
"You are not really there," Ravine whispers to herself and, ultimately, the woman in the fog. "And yet I see you every day."
Just not here, or anywhere.
Time is not a river. Not truly.
As she accepts this, the woman in the fog concedes, disappearing deeper into the nightmarish remnants of an earlier time in Hadriel's history. A scar that never really healed quite right.
So, this is supposed to be about regret in the wake of an old spirit's return, or something else? That normal serene nature is drained from Ravine's presence as she remains there, unmoving, and a (perhaps familiar) song fading away into the mist before her.
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He can see it from afar, a familiar (a little creepy) figure, standing nearby, just, there. Atem lowers the velocity of the bike and stops a few feet away from the woman, not wanting to disturb her with the sound of the engine, he walks the rest of the distance with it.
There is something different in her posture today, something Atem cannot really place his finger on, but rather than ask, he just approaches and looks into the fog as well, as if he were seeking the answer.
"Wanna go in?"
He jests, just a little.
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Newton Geiszler | ota
He can be found grumbling over a stack of coffee-stained papers at his desk, or grumbling over the corpse of one of this month's Door surprises: a Mongolian death worm. Or he's grumbling about how freaking hot it is, splayed out on the sofa bet during the hottest parts of the day.
Also: the lab is Smelly due to the combination of the above. At least he's set up some candles to help with that?
Wait.
Anyway, if someone foolishly decides to engage him:]
What? If you're here to confess to some great wrong you've done, spare me. I don't care.
[He scrubs a hand over his face, under his glasses. Ugh.]
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Good, because I'm not. I'm looking for Null parts.
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lmk if this is ok!
ABSOLUTELY PERFECT <3
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Will Graham | Ota
When the wave of sorrow hit him, Will was standing in an entrance to one of the tunnels. His shirt was now bloodied, hands just as messy, his face a map of wavy lines from where the tears had fallen. It was overwhelming.
Will struggled with being an empath on the best of days, today was something else. Today felt like the whole City was hurting, their feelings flooded into him, amplified as they festered and consumed him.
He'd been hunting monsters, trying to keep himself active and alert, though, it seemed he'd lost himself for a while... Sorrow and guilt merging into anger... The pile of monster parts, organs and entrails splattered around him seemed a bit overkill, not to mention he had no recollection of harvesting them. Sorrow affects people differently I guess.
So there he was, stumbling to lean against the open mouth of a tunnel, trembling and exhausted with the overflowing feelings that had hit him. Winston barking now and then, echoing into the darkness Will stared blankly into, he hadn't even attempted to sort through the emotions, to see which were his and which were other peoples, he didn't know if he had the energy or control.
2. Around the City
A few days had passed now since the initial blast of sorrow hit. Will had come to terms with and managed to blank out or ignore most of the feelings that weren't his own... But he still had some things he felt he needed to address.
A lot of the guilt and sorrow Will had experienced here he couldn't fix, the people he'd hurt or been hurt by were all gone now and dwelling on the past, as consuming as it was, wasn't anything he could get clarity on. There was always Abigail however. Will felt enormous guilt and sorrow when it came to her and it wasn't just his own guilt too. Will felt terrible for killing her father, for forcing her into the position she'd been in before she arrived here. He even felt guilty that Hannibal had gone back home, she'd lost the one person she trusted and loved and Will felt responsible for that.
There was other too, almost everyone that called him a friend Will had lied to at some point for his own gain or to hide his own dark secrets. But how does he confess?
Wandering the City, trying to put right what he had wronged was the task Will had set himself. But where did he start and with who?
( ooc: Will is an empath and has the ability to see and/or feel what others are going through or have been through. Feel free to have Will pick up on your sorrow! You'll just have to drop me a note to let me know what he'll be feeling! )
Around the City
basically, she's one walking guilt trip.
she was actually headed for the Speakeasy to try (and fail) to drown her sorrows in alcohol when she sees Will wandering the streets. his expression concerned her, so she went over to him carefully, making plenty of noise so that he'd know she was coming]
Will? You okay?
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1. Tunnels
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Lavernius Tucker | OTA
[Tucker walked the streets wrapped in his armor, because fuck it. He wasn't in it because of fear, wasn't looking for a fight; nah, this was because he knew how shit he was at keeping things off his face when the weight of everything was on him like a wet set of jeans. He hated it. Hated. It.
But there was so much on him anymore that he couldn't shake off, no matter the amount of bad sex jokes he tossed out there. He had lied to Caboose. Church was dead back home but alive here. Wash was going to get shot in the fucking throat. Tex was here, and that was a complicated thing in itself considering she kidnapped his kid before blowing up.
Shit...shit was just tense. But beyond that, it felt like so much hinged on him, on these mistakes, on these complexities and choices that never felt fucking good enough. How many people died in the war? How many were his fault? How many of those kids didn't he save? They were at home, partying, mourning, burying their countless dead, and he was here, with (most) of his family.
Wasn't that what he had been so mad at Wash about when he came here? Shit, now he just felt guilty.
His shoulders hitched up as he didn't pay attention to where he was going. If he ran into you, sorry again. Also, double sorry if he broke your foot while doing it.]
[BlueHaus]
[It wasn't the mostly closed door that was the first warning sign that something was really wrong, or that Tucker was spending even more time in his room than normal. It wasn't the lightly picked food or the way he was letting so many of the low-hanging jokes slide by without even a single bow chika bow wow. It wasn't the look in his eyes: tired, sad, and far away.
It was the fact that Tucker was in his room, in his bed, fully and completely clothed.
Next to him on the bed was a picture of an alien holding a basketball, smiling....maybe? It was hard to tell. But there were several other kids in that photo, clearly a class picture. Tucker's fingers were on it, touching it, his eyes staring up at the ceiling while his throat clicked.
He missed his son. He fucking missed his son that he hadn't talked to or seen in a long, long time. And the first thing he would do if he went home was call him.
But that was the problem: leaving here? Leaving here meant leaving Church. That asshole couldn't take care of himself without three stupid sacrifices a week, and Tucker...Tucker
didn'tcouldn't let him do that to himself. Maybe it would be better now that Tex was here, maybe it would be worse, but either way that asshole was his best friend. He had died for Tucker, for all of them.How the fuck could he leave him?
How the fuck could he let Wash leave knowing what Carolina told him?
How could he not go when his son and the Reds were back home?
He sighed, teeth biting the inside of his cheek as he counted the spots on the ceiling. There weren't many, so the number was low, but he did it over and over and over again while the numbers lost all meaning. He didn't know what to do, didn't know what the right answer was, if there was one. Shit, he wasn't sure if Wash knew what was destined to happen, didn't know if Church was okay with staying, didn't know. Didn't fucking know.
Dinner passed and he didn't come down. He didn't move from the bed and just counted the spots again. He needed to tell Caboose the truth. He needed to apologize to Church. He needed to apologize to Wash. He needed to apologize to his kid.
Fuck, this list was long.]
streets
so she doesn't even see Tucker until she runs headlong into him. fortunately, he didn't break her foot, but she's going to have a headache from where her head knocked directly into his armor]
--oh! Tucker. Pardon me, I--I wasn't looking at where I was going.
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Bluehaus
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Eleven | Ota
As she walked down the street in her oversized T-shirt and shorts Wash had scavenged for her, Eleven felt smaller than normal. There was a pain in her chest, the same kind of feeling she felt when her friends shouted at her for messing with their compass. The same kind of feeling she felt when Papa made her perform against caged animals and that same horrible feeling she felt when being dragged back into her small, confined cell for misbehaving.
"Ow.."
Sighing as she pressed a hand to her chest, stopping in her wandering as the sorrow seemed to weigh her down, like a ten tone chain link around her shoulders. Coming to sit down on her knees at the edge of the path she'd been walking, El caught a glimpse of herself in a puddle. That shaved hair of hers wasn't growing in all that much yet and she felt herself becoming self-conscious, wishing she'd worn her wig today. Touching up to brush fingers over the velvet like fuzz. "... Not pretty."
Looking around at the dull City, wondering why she suddenly was struck with memories of Mike, Dustin and Lucas, why she was missing them so much and feeling guilty for having got them mixed up in her mess of a life. She was upset that much was clear, drying a tear with the back of her hand and sniffing to stop her nose from dripping, Eleven frowned and slammed her hand into the puddle, watching her reflection blur and warp. "No!" The anger from guilt and confusion, started to rise, as did the droplets of water that had splashed out around her.
The atmosphere changing with her mood, she was too focused on the pain, on self-doubt of self-worth. Her chest, throat and lungs started to burn as she heaved out breaths, eyes misted over with tears. Anyone coming near to her would find it hard to breathe and eventually even hard to move! As Eleven's emotions poured out into the air around her.
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fucking gods. bad enough that they do this to grown-ups, but a kid like Eleven? that's bullshit. she's upset on Eleven's behalf which is enough to cut through her own guilt and pain momentarily]
Hey. Eleven. You okay?
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Re: Eleven | Ota
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Curufin | OTA (scroll down if you don't want to read the whole thing!)
But this time, the cold fury is largely absent, leaving only what was always underneath, an oceanic sorrow. And tonight, it rolls over him in dark waves, each one breaking and shattering into a kaleidoscope of images. Every breaking wave represents an event or episode from his past. Sometimes these waves strike him one at a time, and sometimes all at once, almost literally knocking him over. And sometimes, overwhelmed and exhausted, he sinks below the waves and drifts to the bottom of that somber ocean, momentarily taking refuge from the intensity of memory, in those silent deathly cold depths.
The refuge never lasts long before that terrible sea of memory seizes hold of him again. . .
Torches flare in the great square under the Mindon Tower, whose knife-sharp beam cuts the mists high above. Fëanor exhorts the crowd and incites them to defy the Valar and depart from Aman in pursuit of Morgoth, the slayer of Finwë and thief of the precious Silmarils. Curufin springs with his brothers to his father's side, for that man he loves more than his life. Their swords ring as they are swept out of their scabbards, and high in the air the blades gleam sharp and terrible and blood-red in the uncertain light, as the seven sons of Fëanor swear the dreadful Oath after their father, the Oath that will destroy them all in the end.
And soon they are killing for that Oath. The docks of Alqualondë are slippery with blood. The blood of the very people who taught Curufin to sail and to navigate, and whose marvelous harbor he helped build, and to whom he gave gifts of gems to scatter on the sparkling sands. Amidst the shouting and screaming and the ping of arrows and the clashing of swords, the sailors fight furiously to keep the Fëanorians from taking their ships, but in vain. Their bodies finally lie cold on the wharves or in the water, and the ships sail north. Curufin raises the sails and takes the tiller, his heart still beating hard, and like the rest of his family, he is possessed by an awful euphoria that overwhelms any other feeling.
And not so long after that, they abandon their kin, the sons of Fingolfin and Finarfin and their people, leaving them on the icy shores north of Valinor. The Fëanorians steal the ships once again, and sail them across the strait to the landing at Losgar, and there they burn the boats. Curufin seizes a torch and sets alight the craft he has just brought to shore, and then he stands with his father and watches the beautiful ships burn until their blackened wreckage sinks into the bay. His mind turns to his cousins who are now left to cross the ice-floe-packed strait on foot in mortal danger, the cousins he grew up with and had once regarded almost as younger siblings. But his mind will not focus, his thought fly upwards into the air like the sparks from the burning.
It gets worse from here. The images begin to spin out of control, to overlap, and to pound like the wild breakers upon a desolate shore. And perhaps not strangely, the emphasis shifts from events to faces, the faces of those Curufin loves or once loved or even hated, and every face brings a stab of pain like a knife wound. And a flood of sorrow like a tidal wave.
Fëanor's mien as he dies in the arms of his sons, his high proud cheekbones grimed with smoke and his body terribly burned by Balrog-fire. The rigid face stern and unyielding even as death approaches, admonishing his sons to keep their Oath and exact revenge for their father's demise. Curufin keeping a face as stern as the dying man's, determined not to shame him by being less than he is. But he bursts into tears when his father's body explodes into ash, his spirt so fiery that it incinerates the body it is leaving.
And later, Maedhros' face when Fingon rescues him and brings him back from Thangorodrim, minus his right hand, which could not be saved if Fingon was to get him down from the rock face where he was hung in agony. Maedhros is as pale as though he were dying, and he is scarcely conscious. His brothers are overjoyed to see him again but very great is their shame that it wasn't they who rescued him. Curufin cannot bring himself to thank Fingon, though he knows he should.
Years pass, and then comes the Dagor Bragollach, the Fourth Battle of Beleriand. The Thangorodrim peaks begin to pour fire and lava into the verdant Plain of Ard-galen, and the forests of Dorthonian are set afire and blaze furiously, and all of this is followed by an invasion of unprecedented magnitude, an unbelievable sea of Orcs, and Balrogs lead them, and dragons. Curufin remembers the faces of his brother Celegorm and his son Celebrimbor and the people who depend on them, the horror in everyone's eyes, the fear, the panic. They cannot reach Himring, and anyway they do not even know if any of the rest of the family are yet alive. So they flee south and southwest under the Mountains of Terror, and a terrifying journey that is. They lose people, but the brothers and the son hold their tribe together until they reach. . . safety.
Nargothrond, the magnificent underground city. There is no peace here, in the end. They betray their cousin Finrod, try to take his kingdom from him. They have come to believe that if they can rule his people, they stand a chance of becoming the most powerful Elven-princes in Beleriand, and that they will be able to command alliances and armies, and finally defeat Morgoth and fulfill their Oath. Curufin's mind has become dark and despairing, though his constitution is strong and he is fierce in his resolve. His heart has become as hard as stone. But now he sees Finrod's face as it looked when Finrod knew he was going to his death, off to help his friend Beren fetch a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth. Curufin and Celegorm send him off with too few followers, once they have seized control of his people's minds and hearts. He was my friend when we were young, and in those days I would have protected him had he been in danger. But in Nargothrond I used my sorcery to put an enchantment on the assembly, and they turned to me and Celegorm, and we wished Finrod dead.
And then not many months later, when the people of Nargothrond throw off the spell and throw the brothers out of Nargothrond -- Celebrimbor's face when he realizes that his father is too crazed with the Oath to see reason or to remember love. He refused to go with me, and I gave him a look of rage and rejection. I might as well have stuck a knife in his heart, the look on his face was so full of pain. But he too was resolute, and he stood beside Finrod's brother Orodreth and did not falter, and all of our people stayed with him. Celegorm and I left alone.
They journey to Amon Ereb, where their brother Caranthir has built a fortress, and they stay there a while before daring to return to Himring to face Maedrhos and Maglor. I remember leaning on the battlements and looking west, trying to perceive across the hundreds of miles of forested country, to Nargothrond where my son was still living, still grieving, but helping Orodreth as best he could with all his skills and all his heart. I did not dare to send my son a message, though I longed to. For that little space of time, my heart thawed. But I went back to Himring and found myself frozen again. I remember the deep sorrow in Maglor's face as he tried to help me but found he couldn't. I had returned to rage and hatred as the norm of my life. Maedhros was trying to form an alliance of all the Elf Kingdoms, but Doriath and Nargothrond refused to join him, because of my actions and Celegorm's. The Silmaril ended up in Doriath, in King Thingol's hands. I went as an emissary to demand the jewel, and Celegorm and I swore that we would kill Thingol and all his people if he did not accede to our demands by the time we returned from the war Maedhros was planning.
Then came the Fifth Battle of Beleriand, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. The Elves did not have enough forces to win it, and they lost it in the most terrible way. The sons of Fëanor were all driven from their lands this time, and for a while, they wandered homeless. I remember my brothers' faces; we all had the same look by that time. Desolate, afraid, having nothing, nothing to look forward to. . . except the Dark.
And finally, Curufin and Celegorm goaded their brothers into joining them in attack on Doriath, with the purpose to seize the Silmaril that was now in Thingol's grandson's hands. By this time, I was nothing but a killer. I remember galloping through the woods on that winter dawn, riding down or slaying anyone who got in my way. I remember Dior's face as we confronted him at last, down in one of the great marbled chambers beneath the stairs. He too was desperate, but he was creating a distraction so that his daughter could escape with the Simaril, along with whichever of his people wished to go with her, and so he had hope as well. It is hard to fight someone who has hope when you do not. It took all three of us, Celegorm, Caranthir, and I, to kill him. And in the end, we lay bleeding to death by the stairwell until the rest of our brothers found us. We were all dead by that evening. Our brothers wept and buried us in a stone cairn, and the icy winds blew and the snowflakes fell.
The only place you'll find him, in the Orchard
Curufin doesn't even bother with his usual perch on the steps of Tranquility's temple, his remedy for sleeplessness or obsessive memory. Tonight, he knows with absolute certainty that even quaffing the tranquilizing waters right from the pool won't help him a jot. Instead, he escapes to the Orchard, plunging into the dim fragrant aisles of the flowering apple trees. He flings himself onto the soft grass and unslings his weapons, and sits with his back against a tree trunk. He is shivering, though not from the temperature, which is mild. His eyes are large and dark, and he stares upwards through the branches or straight forward into the dusk, unblinking, as though seeing right through the world into some other place.
If you speak to him, he will hear you, though.
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He's here. Curufin doesn't have to do this alone.
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lup l closed to taako
It's a few days into the event when the weight of everything feels like too much, Lup slipping into the twin's shared bedroom while she knows her brother is inside, the door clicking shut behind her. A part of her knows this has to be the gods, it doesn't feel like the blind rage she'd been manipulated into before, but the regret sits so heavily on her heart, manufactured or otherwise, she just needs to make up for what she'd done.
Considering how gleeful she's been since her date with Barry, the mood shift is so very obvious, the woman's ears drooping down low while she bites at her bottom lip, clearly a little nervous about how to approach this conversation. It has to happen, she can't just let it sit anymore, but Lup knows her twin well enough to know he isn't going to like it.]
Got a sec?
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Thankfully, when Fear isn't the one running the show, it's much easier for Taako to realize when emotion being pumped through him is artificial. He doesn't regret- even when he does, he doesn't fucking wallow in it like this, he doesn't crave redemption or forgiveness. He's a dick and he knows it. He doesn't need anyone's goddamn forgiveness. He deserves to be the way he is, he's earned it, and he's very adamant on that. But it sticks to him, syrupy into his veins and head, and he can't get it to cease. So he does the next best thing. He hides. He sticks to the house, he pulls the brim of his hat down low, he slides into friend's rooms when they're out or occasionally climbs into the closet just for some relief. Once or twice he's gotten desperate enough to open up a Rope Trick hole and settle in there when he really feels like crying. He's almost at that point now, sitting on his bed in what he'd like to pretend is a fort but is really sitting under a blanket with a ball of Dancing Lights for a reading glow, pretending like he's studying his spells and doing nothing of the sort.
Lup's voice rings out, and he bites his lip, but moves a hand to part the curtain, most of it still hanging over his head. She can see one eye and a bit of an ear, the rest hidden between hair and blanket.]
Uhh... Yeah. Here, hang on.
[He summons the rest of the lights from the cantrip, and has them pull up the blanket in four parts. Now it's... kind of a fort. But more than that, no one else just walking in can see them.]
You wanna come up?
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