Event log: Buried Alive

[hadrielmods]

Who: Everyone participating in the event!
What: The event log for the Buried Alive event!
Where: All around the city
When: January 16th-January 19th
Warnings: Claustrophobia, starvation, premature burials, all that fun stuff.

On the morning of January 16th, half of the game's characters wake up to find that they are not where they were when they fell asleep. Instead, they're surrounded by a claustrophobic darkness, cheap satin cushioning, and an intense feeling of weight directly above them. Unfortunately, all of this adds up to the fact that your character has been buried alive.

Luckily, they'll have their phones, which can function as a source of light, communication, and hopeful distraction. They'll be able to talk to the other folks who are buried around the city, as well as their would-be rescuers. Thanks to Hope's timely post on the network, the rescuers know where everyone is, even if they're not sure who is buried where.

This is where organization, planning, and a little bit of luck come in! The aboveground characters will be supplied with shovels via the armory and are encouraged to go dig up their buried friends. Dig quickly though, because the air supply is pretty thin, and by the morning on January 19th, the characters who are not yet dug up will find that oxygen deprivation is a rather unfortunate way to die.

So, grab your communicator, grab your shovel, and get to work!

► This log covers January 16th-January 19th.
► 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!
► Please remember to report any deaths to the Death page!

Comments

nick rivenna; getting dug up by ronan lynch at some point 8c

[bekommen]

Nick wakes up in the dark and immediately senses there's something wrong, but she doesn't actually place what that wrong is until she tries to sit up and knocks her forehead on the wood above her. From there, it's not hard to piece together the rest of the picture, even in the dark.

And she does what anyone would do in her situation. She panics. Screaming, banging her hands and kicking her feet against the coffin, ripping at the satin lining - all useless, of course. She doesn't have superhuman strength. She's stuck here, for the rest of her life, however short that will end up being. And fuck, it's unfair. After everything she's survived - eighteen years of living with her awful mother, Stanley Park and her Becoming, even all the assorted horrors of this place - to go out like this?

Nick hasn't felt this helpless in a very, very long time. When people in her life hurt her - her mother, Kennedy, Andy - she always got angry, and then she got defiant. She may have given up in one way, like trusting people or believing in love and friendship, but there was always a ruthless determination to survive on the flip side of it - leaving Winchester, leaving Chicago, setting out on her own. There's no escape from six feet underground.

Screams give way to sobs, and she hates this, breaking down, admitting defeat, being weak; it disgusts her, fills her with a flood of self-loathing. Even if no one else can see her, she knows, and she's the worst witness of all.

[greywaren]

His shovel hits wood.

Ronan sags in a mixture of exhaustion and relief, his fingers relaxing just slightly on the handle of the shovel. This isn't the first person he's dug up, but hopefully it will be his last- and hopefully, the person inside still alive. He sets his shovel aside momentarily, leaning it on the edge of the hole as he crouches down, brushes the dirt off of the surface of the wood with bandaged fingers.

It's near the head of the coffin, he thinks- he can feel the top edge of the wood up near where the edge of his hole is, even if the rest of it isn't quite uncovered yet. Ronan has been digging evenly, creating large holes and slowly working his way down from there instead of just trying to get as deep as possible, so there isn't a ton of earth left between him and the rest of the coffin.

He raps sharply on the sliver of exposed wood, loud enough to hopefully wake up anyone who might be sleeping inside. Hopefully, it's Adam. Hopefully he can stop after this. He'd give anything for that.

"Hey- can you hear me!? Are you alive!?"

Ronan Lynch | 2 Open 1 Closed

[greywaren]

Jan 16th | Gearing up | Open
[Waking up to reports that some of the others are buried alive had been upsetting to say the least. He's still working off a hangover and hasn't been spending much time at home- but the moment the announcement broke, Ronan had left to go back and confirm his suspicions: that Adam is underground.

It's easy to know what to do next. He doesn't let himself panic as he rushes to cross the bridge leading to the armory for a shovel, doesn't let himself think about what might happen if he's not fast enough, not lucky enough. Ronan barely glances at the shovels in the armory before he grabs one and starts to move out, checking his phone again for coordinates.

Feel free to run across him as he grabs his shovel, looks for a place to dig, or starts digging! He's singleminded in his approach and doesn't bother with trying to use the network to coordinate, nor has he really prepared or supplied himself for the actual digging- he's quick to his goal, mindless, tense.]

Jan 18th morning | Wearing out | Open
[Ronan winces as he wraps gauze around his hand for what feels like the hundredth time. Blood is starting to seep through again, which makes it difficult to keep a good grip on the shovel. He's wrapped the end of the handle in a spare shirt, duct taped a grip onto it so that the wood isn't quite as abrasive, but it's slow going. He hasn't slept in two days, has barely eaten enough to let him keep moving.

He double checks the coordinates of the new grave before pushing his shovel in through the dirt again and throwing it off into a small pile. There's no stopping him- if he stops, he knows that the panic will set in. It can't. He can't let it. The earlier grit has definitely worn off by now though and all that's left is a weary determination. Ronan isn't going to stop until Adam is aboveground or- well, or dead. Anything less than everything is a disservice.

It should be noted that this is not Adam's grave either. Ronan doesn't know this yet.

Any digging assistance would be appreciated, though Ronan is more than a little testy at this point. Conversely, if you'd like to be dug up by him, this lovely grave here can be yours!]

Jan 18th evening | locked to unknowable]
[Ronan is not going to stop until his body physically gives out on him. He's taken a couple of short rest breaks throughout the day, but he can feel that point creeping up on him all the same. He's dug up a small number of people at this point, but no Adam- and Adam is still down there, still waiting, and Ronan refuses to give in to panic or despair, refuses to lose hope, but his stubbornness can only last so long. The ones buried have no food or water, even if they have air. It won't be long until dehydration or starvation starts to take a serious toll, and he can't fucking find him.

The ground is littered with holes that have been dug by all of the diggers and recovering buried. Ronan checks his phone again, glances past all the crossed-of coordinates and selects one of the remaining ones at random, moving toward it. It's positioned awkwardly- in one of the alleys between shops, underneath some stacked rubble. Ronan groans to himself before he drops his shovel and starts to move the rocks and planks of wood aside, throwing them off, out of the way.

When he turns back, he stops cold.

There's a plant there, growing between the various debris, visible now that he'd removed some of it. It's bright and green and urgent, and Ronan moves forward slowly, grabbing onto another stone and tossing it aside, revealing more green. Soft seedlings and narrow roots spider across the rubble and the earth below like veins, like a symbol, and Ronan digs his fingers into the earth, finding more webs of it, of life. His heart pounds as he reaches for his phone, thumbing open a message to Adam.]

I think I've got you.

[It's a little hoarse, but drenched in relief. Ronan swallows hard and reaches for the water bottle he'd been forced to take with him, taking a drink and capping it up, saving the rest for the person six feet under his shoes.]

You still with me? Just hang on.

Jan 18

[werewolfing]

[peter has found the one person he really cared about finding, but his voice should be familiar to ronan now--it's been talking to adam often enough. he thinks he's done digging, because peter isn't quite so selfless as to keep digging just for the hell of it, and is just idly handing out food and water to those who still are.

he's actually talking to adam when he sees ronan, telling him some story about finding a grove of faeries in the forest by his trailer. he doesn't pause in the story--that's just poor telling--but he does, after a moment of consideration, go wandering for a discarded shovel. then he comes over and silently offers ronan a bottle of water, the shovel held in his other hand, which gives a shrug. the story's almost done, and when it is he moves the phone away from his face and tilts his head at ronan.]

You want some help?

Chris | 16th-18th | Open!

[thechoiceisyours]

[Waking up suddenly and disoriented is nothing new for Chris since being here in Hadriel; after the events on the mountain, nightmares have been a common problem even if they've lessened a little over time. When he does have them, though, they're usually so vivid and terrifying that it takes a short time to remember where he is when he wakes up.

So initially, when he jolts awake, it isn't all that alarming to find himself in pitch blackness and with a feeling of being out of place. It's when he tries to sit up and bangs his forehead on something over him that he starts to actually get the sense that something's wrong, and reaching his hands up to press against the coffin lid only confirms that this is definitely not his room back at their weird house.

Okay. Don't panic. He pulls his glasses from where he's tucked them into his sweater--the paranoid need to have them on him when he's asleep in case of emergency turns out to not be unfounded, apparently--and puts them on, even though they're no real help in the darkness. That problem is solved, however, when he checks what he has in his pockets and finds his phone, quickly pressing the button to wake it from sleep mode and casting a dim light on his surroundings.]

Oh, fuck.

[This is definitely a coffin. Great. Wonderful. Not a cheap coffin either, which eliminates any brief hope of using what he learned on the internet about digging your way out--in fact he's pretty sure the article said that if it was a nice coffin you were completely screwed--so onto the next plan.

Will the phone connect from down here? It's not like it seems to rely on cell towers like back home, so maybe; he unlocks it and immediately goes to Ashley's name, but then hesitates a moment. What the hell should he say? She's going to freak out--he's going to freak out--but another thought strikes him; what if she's in the same situation?

The need to check on her quickly outweighs any fear of scaring her, and he sends her a message first. That done, he for does the same for Sam and Josh, and then opens the network to see if anyone else has said anything; the post from Hope is the first thing on the list and it's both reassuring and not, but at least it gives him a better idea of what's going on.

This so sucks.

How long have they all been down here? How long do they have? Longer if they stay quiet and calm, but even then he can't remember exactly how much time that actually gives. A few hours, maybe. The people who aren't buried are going to have to move really fast, and digging a grave takes a deceptively long amount of time, and...

Panicking will just make things worse, so he turns his attention back to his phone. The most useful thing to do right now is try to figure out a way to help.]


[[ooc: I have no particular plans on who rescues him, so anyone who would be able to do on the 18th is welcome! Until then he's available for texting anyone who needs some calm conversation as a distraction. :c]]

18th.

[recinerate]

[Beyond has never been much for physical labor. He's not frail, but at the House, the most he needed muscles for was lifting and carrying books from library shelves. Brains were what mattered most; intellectual ability was valued above all else, at the exclusion of everything else. Physical ability and emotion were considered distractions from logical pursuits, and the children there were all too willing to put them aside, even without the official imperative to abandon them.

The man he used to be before his time on the Barge wouldn't have made the same effort Beyond makes now in moving shovelfuls of earth over whoever is buried underneath. Self-reliance was stressed; teamwork was thought of as theoretically useful, but more often in context of actual competition. Cooperation or building a sense of community wouldn't have been a priority, unless it was useful. And it is useful, in this setting - survival in harsh conditions usually can't be done alone. But that's not why Beyond took a set of coordinates and a shovel.

He wants to help. He wants to do something about this ghastly occurrence Fear has set into place. Because he's angry, and because he's tired of being toyed with by beings that think themselves bigger and better than him - Fear, the Admiral. Even L. Digging up a stranger - well, it's a way of showing his work, proving that he's not going to sit passively and accept Fear's play for power. It's something he can do in defiance, even if it takes him a long time (it does), even if he's physically exhausted by the time his shovel strikes the wood of the coffin's lid (he is). It's worth it, to work against Fear, to show him that humans are not to be disregarded.

Beyond has no way of predicting who will be inside when he finally clears the last bit of dirt off and pries the coffin lid open. He just hopes he isn't too late.]

Kamina/open/could use a rescue!

[themightykamina]

There isn't really open sky in this giant cave, but that doesn't stop Kamina sleeping outdoors as often as he can. Better the big open enclosed space than the tiny airless ones, right? That's how he knows something's wrong before he even opens his eyes. The air's too close. When he finally does open them, everything is pitch black. As he tries to sit up, his head slams into something only lightly padded, drawing a yelp and a muffled curse from him. "The hell...?" Flipping open his communicator, he struggles to get the thing up to his face, and when he finally sees the right post his blood runs cold.

Buried alive.

If anyone knows what that means, it's the guy who spent his whole life underground, dealing with rockslides and cave-ins. First thing, get a message out. Second thing, conserve air. Third thing...well. What would Simon do? Gritting his teeth, Kamina fumbles for his sword, then stops and goes for his belt knife instead and begins slashing methodically at the satin lining above him. Can't count on anyone to be looking for him; he's gotta try and get outta here, and soon.

[xiake]

In the end, it's not the place that takes adjusting to; it's the people. Sunny's never been in a position to see what people are like when divisions aren't clearly laid out and there's no hierarchy to speak of. Apparently, they just talk a lot more to everyone. They're...friendlier. It's new. Unsettling, even. Sunny keeps to himself as a result, even when half the population gets buried underground.

Someone's already heading up the rescue. He sees no reason to interfere.

But he does eventually grab a shovel. What else is there to do? While the actual written message isn't clear to him, he understands coordinates. He picks a plot at random and gets to work. The grave isn't a shallow one; it's a real grave, deep under, and by the time his shovel thunks against a hard wooden surface, even his calloused hands are forming new blisters.

Sunny doesn't wait. He pops the lid, hand resting loosely on the sword at his hip just in case.

inquisitor trevelyan ; open

[closerift]

january 16

[ She wakes alone in a bed usually occupied by two. It isn't unusual; sometimes, she wakes early and leaves before Cullen, and other days it's the reverse. Cecily doesn't think anything of it... except that the dog is standing in the doorway, whining. Her expression twitches, but it's more in sleepy irritation than anything. Seeing her awake, Pup wanders over and lays his huge head on the bed, uttering a steady stream of pitiful noises now that he has a captive audience. ]

Left behind today, were we? [ The Inquisitor rubs his ears, but he doesn't seem mollified. In fact, the mabari trots back to the doorway, staring out into their shared home, and continues his cries. Accepting that she isn't about to get any more slumber, she rouses with a sigh, standing and dressing, padding into the quiet of their strange, temporary home. If the others are there, they're being strangely quiet; it's more likely that the three are out and about filling their time with whatever it is they've taken to doing in Hadriel.

It isn't much later that she realizes how wrong she is.

Several correspondences set her senses on fire and the irate message from Hope (that bastard) confirms it. Buried. Her heart pounds violently as she runs from the center of town out over the bridge, snatching up a shovel from within the armory without a second thought. As if there were some other option! Pup is right at her heels, growling at random, obviously in tune, to some extent, with what's happening. With what's already happened to his master.

Dorian is the only one she knows well who hasn't been taken. Cullen, Rainier, and Sharon are definitely underground, among a dozen others, surely. She thinks of Arya, the little girl who'd saved her life, and of Doctor Banner, who'd also been there in the storm and aided her when he didn't need to. Were they still alive? How long could a person spend without food or water and with barely any air?

Uncharacteristic of Cecily, she says a few prayers as she goes, cursing Hope and Fear and Rage all in the same breath. At least the latter had helped, somewhat, ambivalent though she seemed to be about their fates. As she leaves the building with a shovel in tow, she begins scouring the landscape, knowing they have no idea of identifying which person is where and that the odds are that some may not make it.

She and the dog dig in eerily similar frenzies. ]


january 17

[ The Inquisitor has a lot of training with a bow under her belt, and yet her hands have broken open, have bled and been bandaged since the previous day. More than that, she's barely eaten or drank and certainly hasn't slept, having spent the night digging by lantern. The dog has worked tirelessly, too, and Cecily has a newfound appreciation for the beast as he tears into the ground with an angry kind of fierceness. It's inspiring, really, and the battered woman at his side drives the shovel into the earth again and again, doused in sweat and past the point of fatigue. It isn't a question of rest, certainly not, with lives on the line.

They'd been given locations, but without specifics. It's all well and good for saving lives in general, but she has a few people who absolutely need saving, who she feels personally responsible for seeing that they are alive and well. Imagining finding any one of them cold and without breath after unearthing the box... has her shuddering and working harder, occasionally crying out in frustration and building desperation. The work is slow at best and is becoming more difficult with screaming muscles and open wounds at her palms.

She half-expects the god to summon monsters to harass them as they try and save the others, but that might be overkill, even for someone as theatrical as Fear. ]


january 19

[ It's over. It's over and she feels about as exhausted as she's even been, sitting against the trunk of a tree. She's tried to pick herself up and go back home to bathe and sleep for an eternity, maybe, but it's to difficult at the moment. Pup has returned to Cullen, celebrating the small victory, apparently unable to be driven to fatigue by anything. He is a war hound, she reminds herself, leaning backward to rest her head against the trunk of the tree. Able to unearth dozens in a few days without resting.

It's just another nail in the gods' coffin, loathe though she is to use the analogy after... recent events. Hope and Rage had been disinterested at best and Fear had obviously been the one behind the entire event. Though she hadn't lost any of those close to her, she has no idea if everyone had been as lucky. There had been a lot of spaces indicated that held captives, and the odds didn't seem to be in favor of saving them all. ]

Bastards. [ She mutters, half-heartedly stabbing a dagger into the ground nearby. Maybe she'll close her eyes, nap where she is, just for an hour or so. It certainly seems more appealing than getting up and walking and even when she tries her legs, particularly her healing ankle, scream in protest. Not at all reluctantly, she stays where she is for a while, contemplating what could possibly be done to strike back at their hosts, after this, when more and more people would be incensed.

There needs to be an attempt, at least. In her mind, continuing to live and die by the gods' rules isn't much more than submitting outright. ]




( ooc; feel free to have her dig up your character if you need it, or to walk up and join in the dig or speak with her! )

17th

[sparkler]

[Dorian, normally not at all a fan of manual labor, has been digging as well, and with barely a sound of complaint. Finding Rainier and Cullen and anyone else who might be slowly asphyxiating underground is a lot more important than complaining, and Dorian always knows when he ought to buckle down. He has no desire to be flippant now, no desire to do anything but try to find his friends.

But they can't work until they collapse. That will only end poorly for everyone, and even if he wants to throw himself into it as thoroughly as Cecily has, he can't. He has to watch them both - and the dog too - because there are too many possibilities for disaster.

He approaches, then, voice careful, a bottle of water in his hand.]

Drink this. You'll be no use to anyone if you collapse, Inquisitor.

cullen rutherford, open.

[smited]

january 16 ( morning; network, open )

[ he knows something is wrong the second he opens his eyes to darkness. there's no warmth beside him, no sounds of the dog softly snuffling in his sleep the way he does. the fabric feels wrong against his skin--slicker, cooler. and when he tries to move, cullen finds his elbows and knees knock into hard wood.

fear, familiar and cold, spreads through him. he can feel something in his trouser pocket and, with some finagling, manages to pull his phone out. he fumbles with it, not really paying attention to what buttons he's pressing. the screen glows with light and cullen--well. he doesn't realize that he's now sending out an audio post.

for a moment, it's just his fast, raspy breathing. then it's a curse--damn it, damn it--and the ripping of fabric. cullen claws at the lid of the coffin, ignoring the way the wood splinters and lodges itself under his fingernails. he's too panicked to pay it much attention. all he can focus on is the way he trembles, the queasy feeling in his gut, the need to get out, out, out. he can't breathe. there's not enough air and he can't move how he needs to, keeps hitting his knees against the lid. the walls feel like they're pressing in on him and he can't, he can't--

the light on his phone goes out. the scrabbling stops when he rips off a fingernail. for a moment, there's no sound save his stuttered breathing as he tries to bring himself under control. (it's not working.) and then, quietly, haltingly, with his hands still pressed to the lid, he sings. ]

O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places...

january 19 ( evening; open )

[ when all is said and done, cullen is shaken. being trapped is... not a pleasant experience. the panic never left him while he was underground, though the intensity of it waxed and waned. every scrap of sleep he managed to catch was plagued with nightmares and memories of when he was trapped in fereldan's circle. there were moments where he woke and didn't know where he was. that is almost more frightening than fear's ability to trap them all.

he revisits his grave (and isn't that an odd thought) a day after he's unearthed. he stands at the edge of the hole, his mabari at his side, and stares into the prison. maybe it's a little strange to have wandered back here, but he needs to see. needs to cement it in his mind that it's over. he's not there anymore. he's not trapped. cullen has the ability to fight back if he's of a mind.

with a shaky sigh, cullen rubs his eyes and his rather prominent dark circles. it makes his bandaged fingers sting, but the pain isn't a bad thing. it lets him know he's not dreaming. at his side, pup whines. ]

Just a few more minutes. [ cullen rests a hand on the back of the dog's neck. ] Just--just a little longer.

video

[closerift]

[ Her heart almost stops when she hears the message. Cecily had just heard that there had been about half of their number buried underground and hasn't even left town when Cullen's voice (his singing) comes over the network. She'd been looking for hints as to who might be where, above or below, but the sound of his voice is telling enough. It sends a nasty chill deep into her bones, but then it rises in heat and flame, hot anger at Fear that threatens to spill out into the same kind of rage that had been inspired to them not long ago.

She tries to compose herself before sending a reply, but her hands are shaking. For his sake, in what she hopes is any kind of small comfort, she manages to turn on the video. ]

Cullen. [ There isn't time, there isn't time. Cecily takes a stunted breath, now moving quickly toward the armory, Pup at her heels. ] Don't worry, I- we're going to get you out. I will find you.

[ "You will come back," he'd said once, in the face of an impossible situation. If either of them deserved the favor of the Maker, it was him, faithful and good as he's always been. Spare him this trial.

But, it isn't a test of the Maker's, she knows. It's something more simple. She'll have to attend to that budding sense of vengeance later. ]

Bob Saginowski. Open

[dangerous_dog]

1. Open.

He's quiet for the whole of the first day, almost. He listens into the feed, and understands- understands that they're coming, that they don't know who's who and who's where, so that people are digging. People are coming, people are coming for everyone. He talks a little with Chris, he falls asleep as quickly as possible, thinking it's best to conserve energy.

It's the second day he wakes up in the black that he loses it, and starts to thrash, pounding his arms and legs against the top of the box, and side to side. He fights hard enough that the communicator knocks on in the fray.

He is also screaming. His voice rasps from thirst, is weak with panic- when you're really, truly afraid, you actually don't get louder, you go quiet, as you fight against the terror to fill your lungs with air. But then, the communicator is right next to him, so it doesn't have to be loud to make the connection distort with static.

Black. A man screaming. The tattoo of flesh beating against wood. Then eventually, nothing.

2. Open.

Bob imagines he hears the blows of a shovel striking ground above him. More often than not, he thinks he loses it, that it's wishful thinking, or that someone has abandoned their search effort- gotten the news that their real friend was unearthed in another box and left him to die.

It's probably his imagination, but in the bleakest moments, he wonders what would happen if he were the last one dug up. No one knows him. If everyone is looking for someone, and if all of them are found first, no one would have any reason to keep going. He's very likely going to die down here.

He shifts onto his side- there's at least that much room, and curls forward, until his forehead and knees are against the edge of the box, easing the cramping pain and stiffness ever so slightly. Bob rests like that, and loses time.]

1 (voice)

[theresolve]

Hey - hey - [the voice that comes through is gruff but clear and calm.] It's alright, man, just breathe.

arya stark | three open, one closed

[whichend]

hour one: 16 january. action and video.
[ And when she opened her eyes, she was blind.

It takes several moments for Arya's eyes to adjust, and in that time, she presses her hands to the walls of her coffin, to the floor. She scrambles for Needle, for a door, for something. All she finds is her phone, tucked away in one of the corners of the box.

She lets it illuminate her cage, and it's only then that she realizes the gods have killed her.

She knows what this is. She is being punished for becoming someone. For being Arya Stark, when that person was supposed to be dead to her. And now, they will take all her lives as payment. And there's nothing she can do, nothing at all, because she never became a person where it counted. All she can do is plead.

Arya switches her phone to video, hoping to reach the gods in the only way she knows how. The camera shows a girl curled in on herself, shaking, barely suppressing tears. ]

I'm -- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry --

hour nineteen. action and text.
[ When she closes her eyes, she sees her brother.

He is in the box with her, she thinks, and yet he is not. She reaches for him, but feels nothing, only the soft lining of her coffin. Jon looks right through her, and then turns away. She is the ghost this time, but it is he who does not remember.

She realizes that even in death, she will not see that brother again. Were she not so thirsty, she would cry. ]

v ala r


mor g hul i s

[ All men must die.

When will it be her turn? ]

hour fifty-one. action. (closed to peter and gren.)
[ She does not move anymore. She does not think anymore, either, but if she could, she would think she existed halfway between waking and sleeping, death and life.

She does not move when the light begins to shine. There's a voice, up above, and a regular thunk, thunk -- the sounds of digging, if Arya was cognizant enough to realize what it was.

The diggers will find a small, thin coffin, about five and a half feet. Child-sized. Inside, Arya lies curled in a fetal position. Her breathing is slow and ragged, but she's alive. ]


above: 19 january. action.
[ She hasn't spoken much since being dug up. The burial has shaken her, and the only way she knows how is to cope is to shut down, to ignore fear and memory as much as she can. She's polite enough when people talk to her, but she responds in short, often one-word answers that are barely responses at all.

Arya has taken to spending hours in the forest that borders the park. She'll sit under a tree, curled up under her large coat like a blanket, and try to lose herself in the shadows and the leaves.

She doesn't even bring Needle with her, and for once, Arya doesn't confront whoever's approaching. ]

51

[werewolfing]

[peter is exhausted. he's been looking for arya, talking to her until his voice has gone hoarse, but she's hard to reach, hard to get to respond. he tells her stories while he digs, stories of faeries and magic, of werewolves and upir, of gypsies. he tells her about his family, the vast rumancek clan, a widespread group of bad decision-makers who live poor and die young, but every moment of their lives is lived, not a single one wasted. he promises her food and water when he finds her, promises her light.

finding her is the problem. this isn't his first go-round with digging up a grave, but the earth is unforgiving and hard-packed, and the search is random. he could be digging up someone else, someone else could be digging up arya right now. he doesn't know, so he talks to her.

but then he comes across someone who might be able to help.]

Bruce Banner: Open.

[zen_en_vert]

Field

Bruce helps with the digging the first half of the first day. He has a strong back and strong arms and he puts both into the work, clearing dirt away as fast as he can from one body, then helping with another until someone else can come in and take the spade over from him.

He helps coordinate where he can, but by the end of that first day slips away to go back to the clinic, where he works through the night.

Clinic

He has been preparing for incoming casualties. There are many beds, now, and a roomful of palettes on the floor. There's water and towels and constant tea on the stove, and a huge pot of broth as well, to get people eased into eating and drinking again- he's anticipating hunger and dehydration becoming problems as time stretches on.

He has clean clothes stacked by the door- many of the people by the second day will begin coming in stained with urine, and worse. He has gauze and ointment, for nails torn from their beds, and salve for bruises and sore muscles.

He has dark circles under his eyes, but that's an entirely unrelated issue. That second morning, he puts the word out on the network about the preparations, and lies down on one of the cots himself for a precious half hour or so of rest before the casualties start coming in.

clinic

[werewolfing]

[in the morning of the second day, one of his early clients is a boy who was plainly not in a grave. he's slouchy and his hair's uncombed and he has a bit of a defiant air about him, as though he doesn't quite trust what he's walking himself into. that's mostly because he doesn't. his hands are stuffed into his pockets, adding to the overall 'suspicious hoodlum' look.]

Hey, you the doctor?

[that suspicion is there in his voice, too, but under that brittle bitterness there's something soothing about the timbre of it.]

rey; closed to nick valentine

[circumitus]

If anyone asked her what motivation Rey had to grab a shovel and start digging through closed graves of suffocating people, she honestly wouldn't have much of a satisfactory answer. She had no one important to her in this place. Not even anyone that she would consider an acquaintance was even present here.

Perhaps it was the simple fact that being buried alive is a shit deal. Not only that, but traumatic as fuck. It wasn't too long ago that Rey had found herself nearly crushed to death in the undercarriage of an aircraft's landing gear, and a few minutes of that alone was enough to rattle her. Being forced to spend days in a place like that, though?

Yeah, no.

Besides, if luck had played its hand differently, it was possible that she could have been the one under there. There was no way in hell that she would have been able to rely on the goodwill of strangers to help her ass out. As self-sufficient as she would rather be, they were all in this together, if they were ever going to make it out.

At the end of her working daze, Rey was no longer shoveling dirt. After digging herself into a rather deep hole herself, she finally managed to excavate her way to a coffin. She continues shoveling until she's unearthed enough that she could fully make out the coffin, tapping it with the metal end.

"Hey, whoever's in there, you better not be dead." Depending on whether or not she gets an answer, she'll work on prying open the coffin with her shovel next.

[synthedick]

It was less than a week ago that Nick had gone from trapped in Skinny Malone's lockup to trapped in some underground city. Less than a week had passed since he'd been dragged there by gods he'd never heard of, pitted against creatures he'd never seen before.

Yes, it had been less than a week, and here he was, was trapped again - this time, buried alive. When it rained, it poured.

Being stuck in a box for hours on end gave the gears in his head plenty of time to turn. While he can breathe and eat, they aren't necessities, and he therefore had no fear of asphyxiation or starvation upon discovering his predicament. However, his synthetic body is simultaneously an advantage and a disadvantage: he could undoubtedly survive in the coffin for days, weeks - more if necessary - but in the event no one found him, he was going to be down there a very, very long time. He'd examined the inside as best he could with the light from his phone, and there didn't seem to be any way for him to dig himself out. That meant waiting for a rescue.

He'd met a couple of people in the city, but they were nothing more than passing acquaintances. Thus far, it seemed his life would continue to be as lonely a one as it sometimes was in the Commonwealth: he had yet to run into anyone quite like him, synth or otherwise - not that he particularly wanted to run into other synths. And knowing no one in the city, no one would come looking for him in the grave, much as no one was likely to come looking for him in some mook-ridden Vault.

Still, he counted his blessings. He could need air and food. He could be panicking, like others seemed to be doing on the phone. Hell, he could not have the phone at all to keep him entertained. It was a handy piece of technology - some kind of pocket terminal all his own, capable of broadcasting both phone calls and film. Handy, indeed.

He was also lucky that there were people both capable and willing to mount a rescue effort, meaning he wasn't stuck in that box for nearly as long as he'd expected he'd be. After two weeks stuck in Skinny Malone's makeshift cell, that felt like winning the lockup lottery.

It's a little over a day when he hears the sound: crunching, the shifting of dirt against the coffin as the soil above it is loosened and moved out of place. Either it wasn't packed well, or someone had finally found him. A voice calling from the other side tells him it's the latter.

He calls back from inside. "Trust me, that's not an option."

Henry Percy ✠ open

[hotspurred]

[Esperance.

It is a war cry derived from his family's motto that he has used countless times in battle. Henry does not speak it now, but his mouth shapes the word as though to draw power from it. He has never been truly helpless before. Even facing near-impossible odds, there has always been the option to fight. This endless waiting does not suit him, and the need to do something itches relentlessly beneath his skin. With scarcely any room to move, he can only kick the sturdy coffin in impotent frustration and press his palms to his face, run his fingers through his hair.

As time passes, it becomes more necessary to actively stave off despair. Any distraction will do. He turns to his phone, reading, listening and even involving himself. It helps to break up the oppressive darkness and silence, temporarily reducing the complete isolation.]

[It works for a time.]

[At some point, however, despair breaches his thoughts. Henry is slow to trust, especially strangers, and it starts to feel like he is counting down as much as waiting for rescue.

He finds himself thinking of Iamarl: her lithe silhouette and the rich tone of her skin; her large, expressive lilac eyes and slender nose; her adorned snow-white braids and delicate lips painted to match. Skimming the surface of his deep well of grief, he thinks of their last meeting, though not the moment when she died. Instead he remembers their escape from his besieged position. She walked beside him, wounded from reinforcing him, an act which spared him from certain death. A former assassin of her calibre must have known that she would not make it back to safety, but if so, then she gave him no sign. At the time he believed they had both survived. What thoughts flooded the privacy of her mind as her life bled from her body with each step? Had she felt the same desperation to live, even as her situation grew bleaker?

Henry thinks of Edward too: his tall, broad stature; his long hair the same jet black as his famous armour; the shadow of stubble framing his smiling mouth and dusting his strong jaw; his clever, lively eyes. He thinks of those agonising months watching their prince's health deteriorate, fighting battles under lesser commanders with a heavy heart knowing that Edward lay in what appeared to be his deathbed, wasting away slowly. Before his health took a miraculous turn, had Edward spend his every waking moment enduring this same inescapable, bitter powerlessness, only worse because his prison was his own body? Did he fear to sleep, knowing that he might never wake?

Neither let despair rule them. Neither gave up.]

Esperance. [He says to himself, out loud now, as he seeks some sign of impending rescue.] Esperance!

[Nor must he.]

if this is ok?

[sparkler]

[Dorian has been trying to find his friends, mainly, but he is not at all the sort of person to be disappointed when he saves someone else, instead. No one deserves to die like that, buried and alone and slowly suffocating. Digging graves - physical labor in general - isn't his area, really, and certainly isn't something he enjoys doing, but it must be done.

His hands are sore and callused, which he doesn't particularly like, but he's been pacing himself. He hasn't exhausted himself quite yet. And here he is at another set of coordinates, hoping it might be Cullen or Rainier, but fully aware that it would take quite a stroke of luck for that to happen.

He's nearly all the way down. His shovel hits the lid of the coffin with a thunk, and he sighs in relief. He really needs another break, but first, whoever this is needs to be freed. He begins clearing off the top of the coffin, so that it can be opened, but he taps his shovel against the lid once or twice first, so they know he's there.]

I'll have you out in a moment. Hold tight.

dorian pavus | open

[sparkler]

[a: january 16th, digging]


[None of this is at all pleasant.

Dorian has friends trapped somewhere underground, and undoubtedly a number of other people he hasn't met who are entirely innocent and don't deserve to be tortured in this fashion. Who does? Who could possibly deserve a fate like this, trapped in the dark and expected to slowly die there? He's angry at the thought of it, angry at the injustice and sadism inherent in it all. He knows who to blame - Fear - but there's nothing he can do about it.

Nothing but dig, and so that's what he's doing. Manual labor is not Dorian's strong point, but he's no delicate flower either. He has little practice wielding a shovel, but it isn't as if it's particularly difficult. He slides the shovel into the dirt over one of the spots that Hope sent out, one that supposedly hides a person, somewhere deep down.

There are so many. They'll never save them all if they don't work hard. Dorian puts his weight onto the shovel, freeing some dirt, and begins to dig.]


[b: january 17th, resting]

[He can't work without stopping. Dorian has done more digging in these few days than he'd ever done in his life before this, and he can feel physical exhaustion setting in. He's near another set of coordinates, his shovel propped against a wall, but he's sitting down on a pile of rubble. Just for a moment, maybe two, just long enough to shore up his strength before he begins again.

His hands are sore, the skin broken here and there where the handle of the shovel rubbed it raw. He tries to ignore it, takes a drink of water. This isn't the sort of thing he's good at, but he has no choice.

He eyes the ground. Maybe there's a way to break through with magic. He considered it before, but the negative outcomes make him hesitate. He could hurt whoever is buried down there, he could ruin the coffin. There is no simple spell to remove dirt, after all, and while Dorian is rather skilled at explosions, he would need pinpoint accuracy.

He wipes sweat from his forehead. He doesn't even want to consider what he might look like right now.]

17th

[swarm_embrace]

[Kerrigan has also been doing this the old fashioned way. Mostly. She doesn't want to risk the safety of whoever is buried by using telekinesis to move large amounts of dirt. If it were a pile of rocks she'd be more open to the idea, but she's never moved loose material like that before.

She sees the man she saw in the library previously, and he looks exhausted and in need of a shower.]

Have you gotten any sleep since this started?

[But there's no time for being idle, so Kerrigan is walking over and sticking the shovel in the ground even as she talks.]

Sharon Da Silva | Open + Closed

[unitas]

▍▍▍▍NETWORK | Jan. 16th, Early | Voice

[ The panic upon waking is immediate. There’s no rise, just the sudden, very daunting realization that she’s not where she was when she initially went to sleep. From there, it only worsens as the severity of the situation sets in: she’s in a coffin, and she’s been buried alive.

She screams; she pounds her palms against the lid of the coffin; she kicks, and sobs, and slams her fists and elbows into the coffin’s walls in a desperate attempt to escape. She struggles until the pain turns physical, and her lungs burn.

When she slows, and finally locates the phone, she dials for her father, the number memorized in case of emergencies, and activates the network. She cradles the phone to her ear with both hands, and when she speaks, her voice is raw. ]

Dad? [ There’s no sound on the other end, no breathing, and her heart feels as if it’s been crushed. He’s not there because he can’t be there. He’s home, trapped, maybe dead. A choked sob escapes her. ] Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

[ Her breathing picks up, panic rising out of the dark like a monster. ] Dad, if you can hear this... I can’t do this by myself. I-I can’t.

[ and she ends the call. ]

▍▍▍▍NETWORK | Jan. 17th, Mid-Day | Text

the silk burns slow

▍▍▍▍Jan. 18th, Early | CLOSED TO REY

[ The blind panic from the first day had gradually evolved, turning into a more vicious beast. Sharon had thought she’d been calming down, listening to the chatter of the occasional people who would contact her, but then it would strike: no warning, just the sudden, startling return to reality.

It was like being hit by a brick in the chest. Her breathing picked up, her heart pounded, and she could do nothing to stop the onslaught of tears and body wracking sobs. She had begun to fear that monster more than the dark. The first time, when the panic unraveled her, the silk fabric above her caught fire. It burned slow, fumes so familiar to that of burnt flesh that she heaved, and choked up stomach acid. She put it out quickly after, but the scent remained.

At some point—at many points—Sharon slept, but the panic would always wake her.

Except now, what wakes Sharon isn’t the panic, though come it does, but rather the sound of something above her. Fear shakes her first, but hope overtakes it. She pounds her hands, now bloodied after hours of escape attempts, against the lid.

Please, please, please, please.

She screams ] I’m here! Please, oh god, I’m here!

▍▍▍▍ Jan. 19th | Open

[ A good part of Sharon da Silva only wants to hide away. She wants to curl up under a few blankets, blast the angriest music on her iPod, and scream and sob into a pillow. But she can’t.

The moment she had tried it, had pulled the blanket up over her head, a shield to protect herself from the rest of the world, she found herself suddenly suffocating. The sheets beneath her felt more like satin, and the blanket covering her was being weighed down by pounds, and pounds, and pounds of dirt.

She screamed, then. She screamed, and left, dragging a short sword along with her.

Now, Sharon stands in front of Fear’s temple, the tip of the sword resting against the ground. She makes no move to go in, but makes no move to leave. She’s not sure what she’s doing here—she should be, but she isn’t—and can’t will herself to leave.

She wants this place burned to the ground. ]

jan. 19

[morphinum]

[ Johanna wasn't particularly happy with the burials, but then again, she's rarely pleased with anything. She hates the control these gods have over people, with their ability to warp feelings, to whisk people away to wherever they fancy. Johanna's fought to maintain control of her own self her entire life, and she isn't about to let some god take that from her.

And clearly, neither is this woman. Johanna recognizes the expression on her face -- this woman's been tortured, and the scars that are left over feed an anger that's only dealt with by revenge.

Johanna knows that feeling well.

Johanna approaches the door and stands next to the girl, giving her a grim little smile. ]

Give 'em hell.

chie satonaka; getting dug up by z!

[heavyheels]

This isn't the first time Chie's come back to consciousness and found herself enclosed in a suffocatingly small space - her arrival in Demeleier happened inside Yosuke's birthday cake, and she'd manage to push her way out, spitting mad at what she assumed was a stupid prank. This isn't the same. She wakes in the dark, on her back, and it's cold, and eerily silent. She feels out at the space around her, fingers sliding over the cheap satin lining, and her heart races as her brain climbs to the conclusion of where she is now instead of where she should be. She breathes in deep, gulping panic breaths, reaching inside her pocket for the phone she hopes is still there (it is), shakily flicking on the light to inspect her surroundings and confirm that yes, this looks like the inside of a coffin. She pushes at the lid and it doesn't budge.

"H-hey! Can anyone hear me? Help!" No response. Chie blinks back tears and slides down to the foot-end of the box, kicking at the wall with both feet. She hears the sound of wood splintering once or twice but it's not enough; the earth around her is packed tight. She's not strong enough to kick her way out of this problem, so she turns her attention to the network posts, reads what everyone else is writing or saying. She's helpless, and she hates this feeling, but there isn't anything to be done except wait for rescue. So she waits, listening to the sound of her hammering heartbeat, swallowing down the sick feeling rising up from her stomach.

[isacrowd]

Z plus two replicas dig hard. It's her first dig, and she probably shouldn't be exhausting herself like this. Digging is hard enough work, but digging times three is probably careless -- but it doesn't matter. She needs to act fast to get people out of the ground. It's what she would want if she were one of the ones buried.

As soon as she feels one of her shovels scrape wood, she pushes herself harder, her body less tired as hope rushes through her. She's found someone!

"Hey!" Z knocks on the exposed wood with her shovel as her replicas keep digging. "You're almost out! Hold on!"

beyond birthday; a bit for johanna mason c8

[recinerate]

After digging up the person buried under his set of assigned coordinates, Beyond is exhausted. It's not surprising, considering how little physical activity is the norm for him. More than once during this ordeal, he's had the thought that he should have kept going to the gym on the Barge, should have found a way to bargain with Furiosa for further lessons in self-defense training, maybe should have quit smoking well before his stash of cigarettes ran out, or never started to begin with.

Obstacles aside, he kept at it, and he succeeded. And as he sits at the edge of the grave resting, shovel still in hand, he reflects on what it feels like to actually succeed at something, for once. It's been a very long time since he's felt anything resembling this sense of accomplishment, and even though nobody else is around to recognize his victory, he still allows a small smile to creep across his face. The blisters on his hands, the aches in his muscles - all acceptable costs for this outcome.

[morphinum]

Johanna is less satisfied. She'd only started digging in the first place to find someone very specific -- she doesn't really care if the rest of the city dies by asphyxiation. That's their problem. But somebody else found the person she was looking for, so she's got blistery hands and exhaustion for nothing.

Seeing Beyond at the edge of a giant hole in the ground presents the perfect opportunity to vent that frustration. She pads up behind him quietly, using her best gladiator stalking technique, then gives him a solid kick in the back to send him toppling into the hole.

Wonderful.

Josh Washington | Open

[pighead]

[a: january 16th, shovels]

[Some part of Josh thinks this whole thing is cool in a weird, twisted way. Buried alive, your friends forced to find you while time ticks down? Sounds like the premise for a great movie, or maybe a shitty one with some great setpieces. Sounds like the kind of thing he might think up.

But it's not, and he has to remember that. It's real, and the ones time is ticking down on are Chris and Sam. And Josh might still be confused, might still be resentful and a little angry, might still be struggling against his own mind - but even before, he never wanted anyone to die. He never wanted anyone to get hurt, even, not really. And he definitely doesn't want Chris or Sam to die.

So he's in the armory, looking at a pile of shovels. They seem more or less identical to him, so he choose one at random and turns for the door. There's digging to be done, and they only have so much time.]

[b: january 17th, digging]

[As it turns out, digging is not terribly fun. Josh's back aches, his hands are sore, he's sweaty and starting to get a headache. He drops another shovelful of dirt on the pile he's got going, and looks down at the hole. He doesn't know who's down there. Hopefully someone decent, but really, Josh isn't against saving anyone. No one deserves to die like that.

He leans on the shovel, breathing. He'll wear himself out if he's not careful. At the sound of a footstep, though, he looks up.]

Hey. Lend me a hand?

b

[isacrowd]

[Between coordinates, Z is sans replicas, to conserve energy. She's had a good enough break for now, though, and she's still anxious. There are people underground, scared. Alone.

If she has her way, they'll all be safe before their air runs out.

She looks up as Josh calls out to her, sees the state he's in, and heads right over.]

Here, let me dig for a while.

[She doesn't wait for an answer, gets right to digging. Her muscles are still sore from earlier, but she's not hurting too badly that she'll need to stop soon. This would go faster with a replica, but she's not going to open with that quite yet. Besides, this guy managed to do a good amount of work on his own. Whoever's down here should be out soon.]

adam parrish | open

[unknowable]

[the evening of january 18th, clinic]

[After Ronan dug him up, they went to the clinic. Adam wanted to go home - still does - but three days without food or water and with only intermittent sleep means that he isn't in very good shape. And though he did his best to stay calm, tried so hard to keep from panicking, he didn't always manage it. His hands are bruised, fingernails broken, scraped and cut up. You can't claw your way out of a coffin so easily, but that doesn't mean you won't try.

They're clean now, and the worst scrapes are bandaged. He napped a little, ate something light, drank a good amount of water. Probably, Adam thinks, he could go home now, only he doesn't want to wake Ronan.

Who is there too, in a chair by Adam's bed, slumped against the bed itself with his head on his arms, deeply asleep. He's dirty and bruised too, thanks to days of digging, and exhausted from the same. Adam doesn't want to wake him, not even just to stumble home where they can both sleep more. Especially not when the only reason Ronan is in this state is because of him. Adam can be nothing but grateful.

He sips from a glass of water, nearly empty, and looks around the clinic. It's over. He's not really okay, but he's alive. That's all that matters.]

[casperdisaster]

[Noah doesn't knock, because knocking is not really Noah's style. What is Noah's style is to wait awkwardly at doorways until someone notices him, if they ever choose to or are able to.

He's holding several blankets he yanked off of his bed at home. He's not using them.]

Um.

I brought extra blankets.

Hawkeye Pierce | pls help him not die

[swill]

16th

[The good news was, he'd had a wonderful night's rest. That should have tipped him off that something bad was just around the corner, because sleeping well and deep through the night with (relatively) not a care in the world is reserved for nights of debauchery and drunken stupors. Seeing as neither had occurred on the 15th, well, that just kind of told a guy everything he needed to know.

Except that it didn't. Except that when Hawkeye woke up and yawned his loud yawn, he could have sworn he heard it bounce off back at him. He could swear he had already opened his eyes but it was still pitch black and when he jolted up from what should be the bed-- he swore his head just hit a coffin. And so began the panic. That never ending swell of anxiety, the closed-throat feel of suspicion and, as the doctor thrust aside any thought of damaging his hands--

Palms strike wood above. Once, and again, and suddenly Pierce's shoulders are being pinned to that too-slick cloth and his upper arms are weighted with lead. The third strike is weak and he can't even be sure he's striking upwards, can he? He can't see a god damn thing, not a God damn thing, not a damn thing. Not the hands over his head, not his chest that's been refusing to move in synchrony with his breaths- which is just as well, with all the breathing he's not doing. The bridge of his nose beings to burn first, and Hawkeye's head is pressing back against the wall of the prison. All of him is, like his body's resigned to the idea that there's nowhere to go but down, but sink, and Christ, he chokes on water and panics

which isn't what he was doing before, to be clear]

H_El-

[Yes it was, thank you for asking.

He can hardly breathe, he's exhausted, and you expect him to yell?]

Any time after rescue??

[Lucky you, you get to play Find the Doctor. To make things more interesting, the game has now changed to Find the Doctor with Magical Healing Powers.

He should be at the clinic, but. You know. Some times a guy, even a really devoted guy, has other stuff to do.]


[[Ok so I dropped the ball on plotting so!! First come first serve if anyone is willing to thread out a rescue for this loser otherwise he's around... trying not to die, yeah. Either come bother him or he'll bother you.]

16th

[morphinum]

[ This is Johanna's third set of coordinates.

That means she's on her third six-foot-deep hole, and probably her third dead end. Johanna isn't a particularly happy person, but nearly nonstop manual labor and blistering, splintered hands have made her even crankier. She's got calluses from years of logging with nothing but a hand axe, and now it feels like her calluses are growing calluses.

If someone isn't down here, she vows she's gonna set the entire goddamn place on fire. ]

You better be fucking down here, asshole!

[ She's already exhausted, but not too exhausted to yell. Johanna shouts at the general direction of the ground, not particularly caring if anyone shouts back. She's already digging hard, putting all her anger into shoveling that dirt out like she means it. She's real loud and aggressive about it, that's for sure. ]

Amos Kamiya | Open | Rescue Please?

[amos_moses]

Jan 16th Waking up in the dark and cold is not his favorite way to wake up, considering how Amos sleeps under a nest of blankets. He moves - and then goes still as he meets resistance, his brain kicked straight into adrenaline-driven hyper-awareness. Satin lining, small space, and stale air. Amos shudders all over, a whole-body reaction, and bites back on a reflexive scream and the nauseating wash of panic.

Fuck.

Time in the darkness is meaningless, as he battles with himself and fights for calm, his palms sweating and his heart racing, breath stuttering in his chest. At last he's still as he can be, breathing long and slow, before he searches through his pockets. Phone, that's nice, and everything else he usually keeps in his pockets, including his rosary. This he twines around his fingers and lies for a moment with his hands across his chest, breathing for a long moment.

Well. Time to see if he has any cell reception down here.

Jan 17th Well aware people are looking for them, Amos is dividing his endless time between four things: mentally searching for any animals nearby with his gift (because if he gets an animal to listen, he can get that animal to pinpoint the location of his premature grave and attract a rescuer there as well), encouraging his fellow burial victims over the network, spending long periods of time blanking himself out, and having small fits of panics because what the fucking hell buried alive!!

i guess 17th? (i'm sorry about the delay)

[imobouzu]

Because Jinbee has no idea - just as everyone else - where who is, it's hard to look for specific people, but he has been relentlessly looking for anyone that he can find, rather than search for someone specific. They all need to get out and it would only delay matters if you wandered around trying to find out who's where.

Unlike most, however, he's definitely being loud as he digs. It's nothing coherent (beyond a few curses once in a while directed at Fear), it's just an angry sound that comes closer.

jinbee tsukishima | open

[imobouzu]

«« a »»
Jinbee is furious.

He could use his sword to blow away ground but he might hurt someone that way since he doesn't know how deep down people are buried, so the instant the shovels are available, he is digging like a madman. And shouting.

If you're buried, you'll at least hear him coming when he gets further down in the ground.

And if you're not buried, you'll hear him even better, and once you see him, there's a teenager digging like mad. He's got a lot of strength in his arms and he has a lot of endurance, and the anger toward Fear only fuels it on.

He's not going to stop being furious until everyone has been dug up. (Or died, but he doesn't want anyone to die.)

«« b »»
And after that, he's going to go yell at Fear. Or at his temple, at least.

wolf ; open ; all time

[faithfulwolf]

This is terrible. Really terrible.

Wolf might be really worried and upset about having been brought to a strange place without when a familiar shadow but this was worse. Hell could be scary but at least people didn't get buried under ground in boxes. He thinks. Actually, it might have happened once or twice to people, but it depends on if you anger the wrong people.

Wolf doesn't want to upset anyone by not helping and he wants to help even if he's scared and he does have a good nose and good ears so even before they know where people are buried, he tries to find people.

«« a; all days »»
And he is a wolf, he can dig. At least a bit, and while he doesn't want to risk losing control he wants to help so he, very careful not to let any emotions overtake him, lets his hands turn into paws so he can dig better.

«« b; also all days »»
Sometimes though, he really can't help going to curl up in a corner and sob. He's not good at things like this, and controlling his emotions can ger really really hard. So he sits curled up in a corner with his tail between his legs and ears pressed downward, hoping not to be found by anyone as he tries to rub dirt from his hands onto his pants.

vaiz | open

[dragonbite]

«« 16th »»
[ Thankfully, Vaiz is not the type to panic. But then again, he has a tendency to not show much emotion overall, so it's not all too surprising.

He's a little annoyed that he isn't where he decided to take his last nap, though. But he'll just... Keep a look on the network and then take some naps inbetween, or something. Sorry Fear, he's useless like that. Plus, he might have some candy in his pockets still, he'll look later. ]

«« 18th »»
[ For all he likes to stay in one place and do nothing and nap, it's getting a bit annoying that he can't even roll over properly. And unnerving.

So in an attempt to get out, he hits the surface above him, causing it to break but also resulting in dirt to fall into his box.

He's going to try keeping at it though, because he might be damn lazy, but he's also damn stubborn, once it gets down to it. ]

[dangerous_dog]

[A cave-in could likely kill him, if he were burried the full six feet under. Fortunately, about five feet or so have been dug out, particularly around- well, the foot-end of the box, mistakenly. These things don't say which way is up, you can't aim for the face. So while that starts to trickle in on him, with it comes the sound of a striking spade, the grunt of a man at work.

Bob was freed late last night. His strength isn't where it should be, so the work is slow, but work he does.]

Ashley | Open & Closed

[cowardley]

▍▍▍▍ JAN 16th | CLOSED TO JOSH WASHINGTON

[ They’re only a foot deep, several long, and the blisters she’d gotten within the first hour have long since popped, and scabbed over. They hurt, worse each time she drives the shovel into the hard, packed earth. Her hands haven’t felt this kind of abuse since elementary school, when she would spend her half hour outside swinging across the monkey bars, and then returning to do it again the next day.

Ash dumps the dirt into a pile, and then buries her shovel again into the ground. God, it’s so repetitive, and the repetition just makes her a little more anxious. She leans against the shovel, hands stacked atop the handle, and rests her chin against them. ]

Josh? [ She hesitates. Most of her time at home is spent avoiding contact with him. She locks her door at night, sometimes even leans a door against the handle quietly, just for another layer of security. And now she’s stuck digging with him. ] Do you think we’ll get them out okay?

[ And looking to him for some optimism. Wow, Ash. ]

▍▍▍▍ JAN 17th | OPEN

[ Ashley stands in the middle of a path, and in her hands is a water bottle, lid still screwed on tight. The whole world feels as if it's against her these past couple of weeks, and the fact that this water bottle just won't open feels a lot like a slap to her face.

She just wants a little bit of water before she continues digging for her not!boyfriend and rock-climbing bff, is that so hard to ask?

A grunt, and huff escape her as she tries once more in vain to open the cursed bottle. When it doesn't give, the girl gives an emotional cry and tosses the bottle against the wall. It doesn't even have the dignity to explode, and just rolls down the path. ]

▍▍▍▍ JAN 18th | CLOSED TO CHRIS

[ The text comes in, and Ash's legs turn to jelly. She'd been getting more, and more anxious as the hours had rolled on. They found Sam, thank god, but that had been hours of painful digging. Ash was all ready to do it again, a daunting task ahead of them when they only had so much time left, but the knowledge that Chris was safe turns that readiness into a fervent need to see him, to make certain.

Lucky for her, the clinic isn't too far from her location, and a quick jog gets her there in ten.

She enters, breathless, and cheeks flushed. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, as dirty as one can be as a grave digger. There are clear tear trails in the dirt on her face, but that's secondary to the way she lights when she spots him, all her gloom, anxiety, and fears replaced with an overwhelming relief. ]

Chris. [ She feels breathless still, but for an entirely different reason. She doesn't waste a moment to cross the space between them. ]

16th

[pighead]

[Josh isn't used to this kind of manual labor either. His hands ache, blisters rubbing against the shovel handle with each movement. He could take a break - probably will soon - but he wants to get as much done as he can first. Josh is probably the furthest thing from a hero, and he's aware of that, but he doesn't want anyone to die. He never wanted that.

It's weird being here with Ashley, though. It's not like he hasn't noticed her avoiding him. It doesn't bother him, exactly - he's still frustrated with them all on some low level, some part of him that feels thwarted because he wasn't there, he doesn't remember what he did. What made them all so angry. He doesn't remember if it helped, if it felt like enough, if it was worth it.

It doesn't matter. It sort of has to not matter, because there's nothing he can do. Even if he wanted to, there's no way. And right now it really doesn't matter, because Chris and Sam are buried somewhere and Josh doesn't want them to die.]

Yeah.

[So weird, after everything, that Ash is looking to him for reassurance. But Josh can try. He's still Josh, after all. They were friends.]

I mean, everyone's digging. Even if we don't find them, someone will.

sam | open & closed

[baths]

A) JAN 17TH, LATE | CLOSED TO ASHLEY & JOSH

[ What Sam hates most is the helplessness.

There's a constant knot of anxiety and worry in the pit of her stomach that's telling her to get out there and help people right now and she can't do a damn thing about it. Being able to talk to the others on the networked has helped a little, but it's not the same as actually being there for someone. Some of these people they've come to know? This is the worst thing that's ever happened to them. They think they're about to die, scared and alone. Sam wants to be able to offer a hand to hold but here she is, isolated. She can't help herself, let alone anyone else.

If anything, she's able to take solace in the fact that she's been in deeper, darker and much, much colder. That's also part of the problem, though. Sometimes when she sits in silence for a little too long, her mind fills it with the distant screeches that will probably haunt her for the rest of her life. Those half-human noises that echoed through the mountain that night. Being in the dark, all alone and hungry... it's hard not to think of Hannah, anyway.

She looks at her phone to see if it's time to send another check-in text to Chris when there's a noise above her, muffled and distant, and she freezes. Funny how that's also become her first reaction to almost anything, now. Holding her breath, she listens closely and places her palms against the lid to feel for any sort of movement. ]

B) JAN 19TH, EARLY | OPEN

[ It's early enough in the morning that almost everyone that's in the clinic to be treated is still resting. Not Sam, though. She's making quiet, careful rounds and taking note of anyone stirring and unoccupied. Bonus points if they're alone. She doesn't linger long though because if anyone hates the feeling of being watched, it's her.

Technically she should be resting too, but that's out of the question. Sleep often brings nightmares, both old and new, and the people here shouldn't have to hear it.

When she gets back around to her starting point, Sam makes her way toward one of the people she mentally check-marked, her voice and approach soft. ]

Hey, sorry to bother you... Uh, I was just wondering if you needed anything.

19th~

[thechoiceisyours]

[It's only from sheer exhaustion that Chris has managed to get any sleep himself, too drained both physically and mentally to manage to stay awake even though he intends to, but it turns out to be for the best; he's too tired to dream, at least very much. Vague images or sounds jolt him back to wakefulness every few hours when he does drift off, however, at least until the cycle repeats itself and he falls asleep once again.

It's one of those in-between times when he hears Sam wandering around; his eyes are closed and he's laying down, so he probably looks asleep, but obviously isn't when he mutters a quiet comment as she passes by.]

Sam, you're supposed to be in bed.

[Not that he doesn't understand why she isn't, but he's going to fuss at her anyway.]