extinction is the rule

[singmod]

SEPTEMBER 2023 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS: The Aurora comes, bringing chaos to the town of Milton. Electronics go haywire, and the Interlopers learn of the original citizens of Milton.

PROMPT TWO — THE HOUR OF THE WOLF: Tainted by the Aurora and attracted to the noise of people inhabiting the town, several packs of wolves descend upon Milton.

PROMPT THREE — IT SPEAKS: A voice comes to the Interlopers, one that knows them and their darkest fears and deepest insecurities, persuading them to fade into the Long Dark by any means necessary.

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural horror; ‘ghost’ horror; hauntings; death of npcs in various ways including suicide, murder or exposure to elements.

After the feast, and making sure the newcomers to Milton are seen to, Methuselah packs up. He will explain to others that while he will return to check in, he is no resident of Milton and will not stay. He is a nomad, something he has been all his life. He lives in nature. That is where he belongs. But he does assure that people are welcome to remain sheltered in the Hall if they wish to. And sure enough, the old man leaves, wishing the newcomers well. He can still be found out in the wilderness, and will shelter and feed those out exploring should they come across him.

And so the days and nights of this world roll on. The initial time of those who have come to be stranded in this world is unsettled. The weather is always changing, even if it remains bitterly cold. On some nights throughout the next month, however, the snow clouds clear and Interlopers are given a rare, clear night. At first, it’s beautiful: without the light pollution, all the stars can be seen, the moon casts an eerie glow upon the snow in the dead silence of the night. One might even say there is a kind of peace that comes with it all. And for some of these evenings, they pass by: uneventful and silent — the long darkness of an endless winter’s night.

But on others, it isn’t so uneventful. The noise starts: faint at first, but then growing louder. Something in the heavens above. An ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds difficult to place. There’s a kind of electrical buzzing with it all, a low, endless hum punctuated with cracks and pops that echo. The sky is alive with sound, louder than anyone could ever expect it to. With it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night, growing brighter and brighter as the night goes on: The Aurora has come.

And it isn’t the sky that comes to life too: the whole town does too. Streetlights, illuminating the town’s roads; lights in stores and homes will come alive, buzzing and flickering often. Previously abandoned cars will turn on, their headlights blaring but faltering. Electronics that had previously seemed broken flick on — and whilst there are no broadcasts available on televisions, and the radio waves only drone on in static, both only occasionally blaring standard emergency broadcasts. Any computers and phones will turn on, but will have no internet or reception. Instead, Interlopers may find texts and emails — many of them unsent. The everyday lives of their users stored within, now readable.

But there’s something else too. The Aurora doesn’t just awaken the electronics of the town. Dotted around, in the streets, in homes, in stores, the lights of the Aurora begin to take shape: spectral-like forms of people, their faces hard to make out, details difficult to define. They move in glitching patterns, they speak with voices distorted by static. Eagle-eyed Interlopers may recognise the forms of some, a body or an action:

These are the residents of Milton, in their last moments on this earth.

The forms act out short scenes on repeat: a desperate fight between two men over a vehicle, a murder in a store during a riot, a suicide alone in one of the many houses. An argument over the communication lines going down. A sobbing teen curled up on his bed. A child stares up at the skies, their hands over their ears, crying in fright. A woman begs for her father to leave his home and head to the coast with her, to try to make it to the mainland, but he refuses to leave. A man succumbs to the cold walking alone in the outskirts of town without proper clothing for the elements. Several of these ‘ghosts’ are people fleeing before they stop and simply gasp, staring off into the distance for a few seconds before they drop dead on the spot.

There is nothing that can be done to stop these endless loops. Nothing to help these poor souls. Each of these moments are captured by the Aurora: final, desperate and tragic moments in some unknown, chaotic time. Some of these ‘ghosts’ maybe stop after so many loops — flickering out into nothing, others will last all night. But all will be gone by the morning and the Aurora comes to an end. There are answers, and there are none.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: (wild) animal attacks, altered wildlife, possible character injury/death, possible (wild) animal injury/death.


The growing presence of people within the town of Milton has meant more light, more warmth, more noise. The Aurora has created great change, but people are not the only thing the ethereal lights in the sky has brought down upon this old mining town.

When the sun slips below the horizon, and the clear skies of burnt embers and inky blues alight with stars, they come.

A lone howl, long and haunting. It is the first signal, which carries on the air. You can’t seem to place from which direction it comes from, it feels like it encompasses you. Then another voice joins it, and another, and another. A chorus of them. As the sound echoes off, another fills its place: a strange feral chittering, snarling and snapping — the drumming of feet upon the snow, heading right for you.

Wolves.

Unnatural, glowing green eyes in the dark — tendrils of light seeping from them as they rush in and encircle those they come across outside. They come in packs of three or more, and they are clever. They’re quicker than any wolf you’ve ever known, bigger and hardier too. They will try to strike fast by zipping in when you’re distracted, snapping and nipping at legs or trying to take quick bites out of arms before drawing back. They work together to bring their prey down, a solid unit of noise and teeth. They will hunt down those who hide inside, try to claw their way inside of homes and buildings — dead set on finding you and tearing you apart. There is no hiding from them. They will find you.

But breaking the pack can send them back. If they’re broken, their morale is depleted. Fire is your biggest friend: torches, campfires and flames will keep them mostly at bay and only the bravest of these packs may attack. Striking them with flares or flames will actually send them into brief retreats. Bullets and arrows are effective with both noise and injuring the wolves, and although hitting one will be difficult due their speed, it’s possible. Killing one of these wolves will dissolve the pack’s morale entirely, and the rest will flee off into the night.

Until next time. Maybe it’s best you don’t stick around. They do hold a relentless determination.

IT SPEAKS

WHEN: Over the next month, possibly longer.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: psychological horror; mental manipulation; themes of suicide; themes of depression; potential self-harm; potential feelings of isolation; potential attempted suicide.

There are whispers. Small, at first. Distracting. Perhaps it is only the wind you hear. Milton is so quiet, even with the new hustle and bustle of the new people to this place. Wood creaks and the trees rustle, there are plenty of sounds you could mistake it for.

‘Interloper.’ It is an old voice. Something deep and dark and ancient. Something impossible, older than the earth itself. It floats into your ears and nestles there, sending an ice-cold shiver down your spine. Even to the most stoic and unshakeable souls, it is a unnerving voice. It feels wrong. It feels like an ending. To hear the voice is deeply unsettling... and yet... you recognise it.

It comes to you, in the dead of night when sleep is far. In the long stretches of day as you go about your business, as you travel across the frigid landscape or gather firewood or try to pass the time within whatever home you’ve made for yourself. For some the voice will be clear as day, for others it may be some distant whisper — something gently murmuring in your ear. But the voice will be heard, no matter the person.

‘Interloper. Do you know what it means?’ It asks. ‘It means one that involves itself in a place it does not belong. You do not belong.’

That it isn’t the only thing it tells you. For everyone, it’s different. It knows you. It picks up on any weakness, any insecurity. It makes you feel small, insignificant. It tells you all the quiet, terrible things you hide down within yourself. For days, weeks, the voice is there. Speaking to you. It will wear you down, insist you are not wanted, that you do not belong here.

... And wouldn’t it be better if you weren’t here at all?

The voice seeks to break you. It will push you to your limit. Sleep will become hard to find, your spirits low and hollow. In time you might seem to believe it. Maybe it’s better if you weren’t here. You don’t belong in this place, why should you stay?

‘Disappear, Interloper. Go into the Long Dark.’

Perhaps you next find yourself atop the steep cliffs, looking down into the Milton Basin below. Perhaps you find yourself with a gun in your hand, or a rope. Perhaps you find your feet carrying you out into the snow. You’re going to disappear. You’re going to go into the Dark.

Or maybe the voice isn’t so loud. You can push it down, ignore it. Perhaps Faith is what keeps you steady, perhaps knowing who you are despite your faults stops the voice from taking over. Maybe you can help those who can’t block out the voice. Words of encouragement, affirmation, kindness, determination, even spite. The voice wants you dead, but you will not let it. You will not fall. You will not let anyone else fall, either.

FAQs

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

1. While examples are given, players are encouraged to come up with their own ghostly loops of similar loops. The key thing to remember is that the people of Milton have descended into public disorder. Fights, arguments and murders have occurred, as have suicides or other unexplained deaths. People are frightened. They want to leave the town.

2. Ghostly loops cannot be interacted with, only witnessed.

3. There is no way of putting these 'ghosts' to rest. These loops are more like residual memories, as if the energy of the townsfolk remained, and have been reconstructed by the Aurora.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

5. Sharp-eyed Interlopers may notice that the 'ghosts' of those who are staring off into the distance before gasping and dropping dead are looking skyward, towards the east.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

1. Due to the Aurora's influence, these wolves are harder, better, faster, stronger, than typical wild wolves. They do not die as easily, and are much more difficult to wound and kill. But not impossible. Scaring the wolves will be far easier to accomplish.

2. Wolves will return, sometimes more than once on the same night, or on other nights during the month. The only sure-fire way to have them stop coming back is to kill the pack.

3. Wolf meat is technically edible. But not advised due to parasites. Characters are still welcome to harvest the wolves they kill, however. Who would say no to a cool ass wolf cape.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

IT SPEAKS

1. Characters can be talked down and broken from the voice's influence by others. Genuine connection and empathy will work massively, but even encouragement and affirmations to keep surviving will be powerful enough to break the voice's hold.

2. Players are welcome to play with the length of time the voice can be heard with characters. Some may want to have it over a short space of time, others can have this progress over a longer time period.

3. The voice can come at any time over the next month.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

kate marsh | life is strange

[castitas]

☮ GENERAL
cw: themes of depression

ONE: [ In the days and weeks since their arrival into the town of Milton, Kate doesn’t stray often from the Community Hall. It’s… a new home, of sorts. She occupies one of the cots in the hall, and stays there for the most part. Most of the time, she sleeps, or curls up on her side to lay listless with her thoughts — her spirits low. Even when she’s sitting up, reading passages from the heavily annotated copy of her bible from home in her lap, there’s a heavy melancholy to her. There was too much sorrow in her heart before she came to this place, and being stranded far from home in some frozen, desolate place does very little to help her current state of mind. She misses her family for as much as they judge her. She misses her school, for as much as it punishes her. She misses her bunny, and Max’s kind words. She misses the warmth of Arcadia Bay.

In the first few days, she does manage to venture to the general store. There’s no hope of rescue yet, it seems. But she moves on autopilot in search of basic things. Her teeth need to be brushed, her hair needs to be combed. She feels gross. Picking up a small handbasket at the store’s opening, she picks her way through the rows. Plenty have already searched here in these first few days, and some shelves seem to be lacking — but she makes do.

The pale light of the day doesn’t stretch too far into the store, and she’s squinting hard at boxes of toothpaste. She’ll jump when someone draws close, eyes wide for a moment as she takes a step back. ]

Oh. Hey, um. Sorry, you kind of startled me. [ There’s a weak, sad smile, her head tilting to one side slightly. ] Just… trying to choose some toothpaste. They don’t… have the brand I normally use.


TWO: [ On better days in those first couple of weeks, she can be found examining the vegetation about the town with a book in hand. There isn’t much she can do around here. She doesn’t know how to fish or hunt or trap. And while she can gather things like sticks for tinder and fuel for those precious first stages of firecraft, her attempts to cut through firewood with an axe is miserable at best — lacking the upper body strength to do so.

But she can learn how to forage. She can study books available and try to put that learning into practice. She doesn’t mind if she’s joined in her current search of the hedgerows before her, but she’s focused on the task at hand — not speaking all that much, flicking through the book as she examines the small red berries. ]

These things are, like, everywhere. It feels… kind of weird that things grow here. [ How can anything survive this cold weather? She looks up to the other with a wan smile. There’s a beat before she utters: ] I’m really hoping they’re not poisonous…

☮ THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS
cw: supernatural horror; ‘ghost’ horror; hauntings; murder

[ When the lights flicker on in the Community Hall, Kate lifts her head with wide eyes. It’s been so long without power and now… it’s come back? There’s a hushed disbelief, relief for some, trepidation too. There’s a soft buzz in her school satchel, and she finds that it’s her cell phone that’s turned back on of its own accord after all this time. When she checks it, she finds that whilst it’s switched on, there’s no signal to be found. The screen flickers and glitches, but maybe it's enough she thinks. Hurrying to throw on a coat, hat and gloves, she rushes out into the night — gasping at the sight above her: the air is full of noise, of music, almost. The sky is so bright, and filled with colours. She’s never seen anything like it.

She hoists her phone up high, trying to see if she can claw at some whisper of signal, desperate for service — until the flickering in her peripheral catches her attention. She’s frightened, staring for a long moment as she watches the forms of two men made of light absorbed in some heated argument. She slowly edges closer, cautiousness and uncertainty etched into her face. They’re like… some kind of ghost, maybe? Spirits? She isn’t sure. ]

H-hey—! Please, can you— [ What… is this? But her attempts to end the argument seems to fall on deaf ears. They don't even notice her. If someone comes to join her, she’ll turn her head to them in confusion: ] I don’t get it, they can’t…. hear us?

[ Although the question of if they should is something she isn’t sure on. ]

☮ IT SPEAKS PT. I
cw: mental manipulation; religious themes; themes of depression; themes of suicide

[ It comes to her as she sits on her cot in the Community Hall one evening, when everything has fallen to an uneasy if not calm hush for the night. By lantern light, she reads from her bible with a pen in hand, making little annotations here and there. Interloper, it speaks, and she visibly shudders — her head lifting in fear. Her eyes scan about the room: no one’s speaking to it, she doesn’t think. It doesn’t even look like anyone’s looking at her — but who’s speaking to her? Whose voice does she hear?

And it continues: ‘Interloper. Do you know what it means?’ It means one that involves itself in a place it does not belong. You do not belong.’

She’s visibly shaking, tears brimming in her eyes. She’s petrified. Something old and terrible and she’s frozen in her horror — the pen gripped tightly in her hand.

’Kate.’ the voice whispers, and she gasps suddenly, her eyes widening. ’I know where you were going, I know what lies in your heart. You do not matter. Your life is over. Everyone is… so disappointed in you.’ ]

… No. [ She utters it weakly, the tiniest shake of her head. Get out, stop it, get out… How does it know? How does it know? How could it possibly know?
(She already thinks this is Hell. Even with the tiny slithers of kindness she’s found. Is it really him? Has he finally come for her?)

’Yes,’ the voice answers, ’Why continue to live in your nightmare? Finish what you began. Go into the Dark.’ ]

No—! [ She cries out, jumping to her feet, the bible in her lap landing with a thud on the floorboards, the pen following with a clatter. Her hands clamp over her ears, dissolving into terrified panic. ] No, stop it. Stop it—!

☮ IT SPEAKS PT. II | closed to fidior
cw: themes of suicide; themes of depression; attempted suicide;

[ It makes little work of what remains of her, the fragile, crumbling pieces of mental fortitude she has — the little she’s gained back over the days and weeks of existing in this place. The Devil has never had an easier job. Waste. What a waste. There is nothing for her here, nothing for her back home. It’s nothing but one long, terrible nightmare — and she can’t wake up. And still the voice goads her, whispering to her as she blinks through her tears: go into the Dark.

She was only delaying it. She knows where she was going, where her feet were taking her. The voice knows it too.

But there’s a hushed calm over her, in a way. She organizes her belongings into a neat pile on her cot in the Community Hall. Maybe someone else might make use of them, a fellow violin player, or someone in need of her bible. Perhaps Mr Goodsir might like to keep her school textbooks and notebooks filled with class notes, and someone will definitely need the little extra tins of food that Thomas occasionally brings her. And with that, she heads out, towards Milton Basin.

It’s a calm day, the snowfall is light — a soft hush in the air as she walks, her arms hugging her middle. She hikes up steadily to the sharp, treacherous edges. Her wet cheeks sting from the cold, but she pushes through in that calmness. There’s no panic in her, just a weariness. A sorrow that knows no bottom and a focus on making it stop. Her feet take her close to the edge, and she stops to gaze down into the space below. It’s not the Girl’s Dormitory, with no hard concrete, but maybe it will do.

She doesn’t quite realise she’s been followed, her head turning to look over her shoulder and eyes widening at the familiar face: Lieutenant Little. Edward. She half turns, a startled panic in her eyes, one hand raised, fingers splayed. Stop. ]

Don’t come any closer—! Just… just don’t, okay? [ Why is he here? Why did he follow her? ] Stay away from me—!

[ Her expression crumbles, and she falls silent for a long moment. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t need to see this. And she feels all the more like crap for it, just one more shameful thing. Her head turns back to the precipice, gazing off it. The voice wills her to move, the uncertainty keeps her in place. ]

Do… do you think it would be enough? Or— or do you think the snow would… would it keep me alive?

☮ WILDCARD

wildcards fine with plotting, hmu! | permissions are here | plotting comment is here | contact: heolstor / _heolstor for questions/plotting

grace marks — alias grace.

[patchwork]

open and closed starters in the replies.
PLOTTING — INFO — PERMISSIONS — PLURK

pre-event — open.

[patchwork]

[ Grace has made herself as useful as she possibly can since she first came here. She's moved bodies, sorted clothes, and helped with the preservation and cooking of food where possible. They're all things she knows how to do, and things she'll do without complaining – without even speaking, if necessary. It would be difficult to miss her entirely, but she's very good at blending in when needs must, keeping her head down.

She's stubbornly clinging to the clothes she came with, too. A long grey dress of roughish fabric, with a neat white collar and apron, and a white cap covering her auburn hair. Even her shoes – a pair of simple, fairly sturdy boots, though definitely not hiking gear by any means – are the ones she's worn since she first arrived. The most she's acquiesced to modern clothing is a tatty bit of fabric she's found and adopted as a shawl, which she keeps wrapped tight about her shoulders, and a pair of gloves, though they certainly aren't the delicate white gloves she's coveted since she was a young girl: instead they're chunky and black, much too big for her hands, but blessedly warm.

When she's not contributing where she can, she finds a spot in a quiet corner and takes out her supplies: a small needlework kit and a sheaf of fabrics that she's painstakingly stitched together. Anyone would be able to tell that the piece came with her already half-finished, since they've not been here for long enough to explain the size of it. It's enough to be a child's blanket already, an autumn-toned patchwork quilt. ]

pre-event — closed, for 𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒐𝒓.

[patchwork]

Excuse me, sir, but I was wondering if I could trouble you about something.

[ It's a well-rehearsed introduction at this point: Grace has said the same thing to innumerable people already, and she'd been sick of saying the same words over and over by the third time at most. But persistence is the key, as always, and Grace has always been a very persistent person. She'll hold onto the smallest thing for as long as she must, until she can get what she wants out of it. Her current target is far from important, but it means more to her than just the general notion of survival, so she'll stick with it to the bitter end.

She offers a small smile, one that she's perfected: a completely neutral expression despite what a smile should usually be, more of a politeness than a telegraphing of happiness. ]

When I first arrived here I had with me half of a patchwork quilt that I've been making for quite some time, and the tools to finish it off, but not nearly enough fabric to do the job. I'd very much appreciate it if you could spare any scraps of fabric that would be otherwise useless to you, that I could add to the quilt.

aftershocks — open.

[patchwork]

[ The whirring of electrical things kicking into life is enough to send Grace outside, more out of distrust than anything else. She has to hold up a hand to shield her eyes from the artificial brightness of the streetlights before she's used to it, eyes screwed almost shut, and then once she has gotten used to it, there are a thousand other things to see.

The sky is painted with colour, such a beautiful and almost terrifying sight that Grace feels a little faint, and it's only by gripping to the nearest streetlight that she manages to stop herself from falling right to the ground. The noise, the spectrum in the sky, the cacophony of electrics awakening – for someone whose experiences of the world have so far been painfully narrow, it feels apocalyptic. Then she sees the ghosts, and she screams.

It's just a short, sharp noise, before she slaps her hands over her mouth. But that has to be what they are. Faint figures, trapped in agony or fear, dotted around the place. Her stomach lurches, and she lets go of the streetlamp, taking a stumbling step into the middle of the road. ]

These are surely spirits of the dead, come back to warn us...

the hour of the wolf — open.

[patchwork]

[ Grace is running.

She has to run, because if she stops, or falls, or even falters, the wolves will be at her throat. She'd seen them lurking in the distance, and she'd only had a split second to recognise them for what they were before one of them had started to run towards her, and then they were all following. Her skirts rustle helplessly around her legs as she sprints, her lungs already burning, a stitch in her side screaming at her to stop, to catch her breath. But she can't.

It's stupid to go further into the forest, but she's not thinking clearly now. The terrain under her feet is rough and uneven, branches and snowdrifts threatening to break her ankle or her neck or simply to put a stop to her egress with the mildest fall or stumble. All she has is a head-start, but the awful beasts are closing the gap fast. She skids a little as she makes an abrupt left turn, bare branches whipping past her, but she can see someone in the distance, not so far away, and it doesn't matter who it is. What matters is that she's not alone. ]

Help! Help me! Oh, God, please help!

din djarin | the mandalorian

[metaldad]

open + closed starters

[ starters in the replies. plotting post is here, or if you prefer, hit me up on cosmonautdelta! ]

barbie | barbie

[birkenstock]

♥ open + closed + wildcard prompts below
♥ hmu for things here: ooc plotting — thwip

Eddie Munson | Stranger Things

[satanicpanics]

[ Prompts below!
plotting comment | permissions | muttonchops / poultrylegs @ discord ]

Aurora; ota

[satanicpanics]

[ Truth be told, Eddie’s been getting used to life without electric lights and heating, if only because it’s his only choice. But his beloved guitar has been sitting in a corner for weeks, just begging for a surge of energy to really make her sing, so when the electricity crackles to life, Eddie is on his feet in an instant. Cackling like a hyena, he slings his guitar over his shoulder, like he’s been waiting for this moment since he arrived.

Somewhere in Milton in the dark hours of the morning, a new sound roars to life from just outside the homes, and it’s not the aurora. In the early weeks, Eddie managed to track down an amp (a miracle, considering just how rustic life here seemed to have been), and it was the one item he felt absolutely no guilt in lugging back to the house he’s claimed as his own. It’s battered and worn with a large rip in the grille cloth, but clearly, it works. And it’s loud.

It’s cold and his bare fingers are quick to grow numb, but he’s more than happy to risk frostbite just to shred out a more than appropriate tune. For now, he doesn’t even seem to notice the ghostly figures.

Enjoy the impromptu concert—or come yell at him. ]

Wolves; ota

[satanicpanics]

[ Never mind how he got here or why, but when Eddie comes face to face with the wolves, he doesn’t immediately run. Instead, he freezes, and his blood runs cold. ]

Shit.

[ He’s held up without a gun. Without anything, really. All he has is a cigarette lighter, which he flicks to life with quivering hands and holds in front of him as if that one tiny flame could stop the creatures that continue to bear down upon him.

He backs up, but the wolves only follow, almost amusingly slow, like they knows he’s about to bolt, like they can sense it. ]

Shit, shit, shit—hey! Hey, back the fuck up! Come on!

[ His tone wavers and a high, panicked note seeps in as he brandishes the lighter. The wolves lurch closer, and then Eddie takes his chance. Screaming bloody murder, he takes off at a graceless run through the snow, the wolves snapping on his heels. ]

It Speaks; ota

[satanicpanics]

I. [ The things the voice tells him aren’t exactly news. You’re a coward, it hisses. Eddie rolls his eyes. A failure, you didn’t even succeed at dying. Yeah, he’s still trying to work that one out. You’re alway running, and running still, even if it means leaving others in danger. Maybe it should have been you, rather than that girl.

He knows all these things and more. No one needs to remind him. He’s lost enough sleep thinking about it himself, but the voice is incessant, and it won’t shut up. ]

Sorry, you see, I--

[ He’s taken up refuge with his guitar and amp, strumming chords loudly every time the voice starts in again, just to drown it out. ]

Can’t—

[ Another chord, deafening and metallic. ]

Hear you!


II. [ Eddie is exhausted, but the voices have’t broken him just yet. It certainly helps to know just who you are and fully accept all of it, even the ugly bits. Eddie has never worn a mask, and he’s never hesitated to admit his flaws.

Others don’t seem to be having quite as good of a time. By sheer luck (it’s not lucky at all, really), he stumbles upon one of those people, dangerously near to the edge of the cliffs. He inches closer and reaches out a hesitant hand, like he's approaching a wounded animal. ]

Hey—uh...maybe you wanna come away from the super steep cliffs...

for la'an⸻

[metaldad]

It didn't take Din long to discover that he is not the only one to have the idea of patrolling the perimeter of Milton. This is a good thing, in his opinion; the more protectors they have, the safer they will be while they try to figure out a way to send everyone home. Din doesn't think he'd be any use trying to figure out the mystery of space/time travel that's brought him here, so, he puts his energy where it's better used.

There's a few people that he's seen a couple of times, but so far he hasn't introduced himself. He's not in the habit of doing so.

It's an otherwise normal day, as near as he can figure. The weather was calm, the sun set as usual, and the night is chill and dark. The is a riot of stars with no light pollution to interfere, and Din's paused in the middle of his patrol, not far outside of Milton, gazing upward and wondering if he can see his galaxy from here.

And that's when it starts. A low buzzing noise that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Crackling. The streetlights flicker, orange light sputtering on and off. And as a burst of color blooms across the night sky, Din can hear the sound of what must be one of those primitive holos turning on in the nearest house, an emergency broadcast blaring and light spilling through the window he can see.

His armor's power crackles to life, too, and the environmental controls kick in to protect him from the cold, his helmet's visor overlays flickering.

He walks, and it doesn't take more than a minute before he finds another person that had been patrolling. Din says nothing, merely joins her in looking at the sky, and waits.

for edward⸻

[metaldad]

Ever since the electricity kicked back in, Din's armor's environmental controls have been keeping him nice and warm, but he gets the feeling that it's not going to last. He'd been outside patrolling when the aurora had bloomed to life on the night sky's darkness, and he had seen how the electricity sprung to life immediately afterward -- obviously the two are connected, but he doubts the aurora will last forever.

Others, he has seen, have been checking the electronics. Din fiddled briefly with what he supposed was a radio, but none of the emergency frequencies he recalls had yielded anything.

He decides he will leave the investigation to others, for now. He is more useful on patrol, making sure the town is safe. Now, Din has paused at the town's edge, thoughtfully examining his blaster and checking over the battery. Its power is flickering in and out, but if he times it right, it should still be useful. Experimentally, Din takes aim at a tree stump, and fires. A red streak tears through the air, hits the tree stump, and leaves a scorch mark and a large hole in its wake. Din fires again, but nothing happens. A third time, and the blaster fire seems weak, its impact not as powerful.

He's attracted an onlooker, it seems, so Din pulls back his blaster, tips his helmet in a shrug, and says wryly, "I'll make it work."

remy "thirteen" hadley | house md

[symptomatic]

— open / closed / wildcard in the replies.
ooc plotting, permissions, virginiawoolf.

for rorschach⸻

[metaldad]

[ cw: suicidal ideation ]

The electricity coming back on seems to have everybody excited, and Din's definitely grateful for the return of a few things -- his armor's environmental controls, his helmet's visor overlay -- though he's certain it's not going to last. He has kept to his same schedule that he's made; patrolling the perimeter of Milton to check for danger (and driving off some wolves here and there), checking the traps he's made in the forest for prey, and delivering meat to those who need it.

But he has not slept for the past three nights.

It started small. A voice in the back of his thoughts. Whispering about how out of place he was. And at that point, Din had just shrugged, already knowing he was out of place even among the new residents of this strange little town.

But the voice had grown stronger. And it had started to say, why are you even promising to protect this town? why should anyone believe you? you swore to follow the creed and you broke your promise, the biggest promise you've ever made, how can anyone trust you'll keep your word?

And then, it's a good thing grogu wasn't with you for long, he's happier where he is now. and look at you. you've got nothing. no ship. no child. no creed. no way out of here. The voice circles his thoughts over and over again, gnawing into the bruised edges of his soul, and without realizing, Din begins to agree with it, his thoughts bleak. I have nothing. I am dar'manda. I'm spitting in the face of the Way by still wearing this armor. What use am I?

Between the lack of sleep and the mental furor, Din finds himself at the edge of Milton, striding outward with purpose. Yes. He will either find something of use out here, or he will perish, and cease to be a burden on the town. This is the right thing to do.

max briest | original

[thephix]

↼ closed & open starters
ooc plotting | permssions | batsecretary

aurora horrorealis ; ota

[thephix]

↼ a: investigation

[Since her arrival, Max has been hoarding journals and notes, trying to learn as much as she can about what transpired here and when it all transpired. She has a mostly complete timeline created and extensive notes based on what she's found in various journals, as well as what she's learned from the state of the town itself, including the bodies littered throughout the buildings and streets.

When the power returns, it presents an opportunity to learn more.

Max travels to as many houses as possible, focusing on ones that haven't been claimed by the new arrivals, and immediately goes to any source of technology. Laptops, computers, cell phones. Anything that wasn't working until now, and she dissects unsent emails, stored documents, even the most mundane artifacts like shopping lists.

It's a somewhat exhausting process, but it feels important to discover as much as she can. Anyone who stumbles upon her might end up recruited into helping. Sorry.]

↼ b: signals

[It occurs to her some point during the third time the aurora, that there's something far more useful she can be doing than taking notes on what happened to the people living here.

There are no signals coming in. That doesn't necessarily mean that a signal can't go out.

Max starts at the hunting supply store, grabbing any radio equipment that she can, then she makes her way to the gas station to rifle through any tools, taking anything she thinks might be useful. It isn't nearly as much that she'd like, not nearly as much as she'd have at home, but it's better than nothing.

The end goal, as long as the aurora lasts, is the mines. Not to go into, she's not that stupid, but to the operations center above ground, where she's hoping there will be a radio system.

Maurice trots around outside, keeping watch on the area as Max spends the evening messing around with the radio equipment, trying to do anything she can to boost the signal, sending out occasional broadcasts requesting assistance, naming the town and doing her best to give a description of the location, just in case anyone picks up the signal.

On subsequent nights, whenever the aurora comes, Max tries to make her way back to the mines, Maurice at her side and the both of them moving with purpose. It's clear she's got something going on, but she'll stop to explain if anyone asks.

hour of the wolf ; ota

[thephix]

↼ a: rescue

[In the first few days, Max had heard howls in the forest, and had promptly taken herself and Maurice to the farm on the outskirts of town. There may have been livestock there, and it may have had a guardian. If the wolves have been here for long, that guardian might have needed protection. It turns out to have been a good instinct, because after a few hours of searching, Max finally finds a wolf collar.

So when the wolves come out of the forest, Max and Maurice are ready.

Bringing Maurice with her makes her stomach turn; she's never had to put him in direct danger like this before, despite putting herself in constant danger, but there are people here who need help and she can't in good conscience not use one of the best tools at her disposal. The gun is helpful, too, but there are a limited amount of bullets and god knows how many wolves will come pouring out of the forest.

And Max patrols.

There's no other way to describe the way she moves through the town, Maurice an imposing figure trailing behind her, his ears alert and nose to the ground. Max doesn't have her gun drawn, instead having liberated a metal baseball bat from someone's garage. The gun will be a last resort. Especially once she realizes the wolves are much faster than any regular animal. She won't waste a finite resource.

Sometimes it's a scream that alerts her and she takes off running towards the source. Sometimes it's Maurice picking up on a scent or sound that Max can't and giving a low bark to catch her attention before he starts leading her through the streets.

However they find someone, they seem to arrive at just the right moment. A growl, different from the sounds coming from the wolves, announces Maurice's arrival before he leaps out at the nearest wolf, snarling and snapping, completely unlike the placid, gentle dog that's been seen around town. Max arrives hot on his heels, making a beeline to whoever the wolves were chasing.

If they're on the ground, she'll offer a hand up. If not, she keeps her attention on the wolf pack, making sure none of them approach.]

We need to go. Can you run?

↼ b: team up

[It doesn't take long to recognize others who have had the same thought as here, who have taken to watching over the ones that can't protect themselves. It hadn't been a surprise, not when she'd already met plenty of people who struck her as heroic types, and she supposes that right now, she should count herself amongst their ranks.

She's traded the baseball bat for an improvised torch, a long piece of metal wrapped with fabric at the top, soaked in kerosene. Fire has worked well to deter the wolves, and the torch can double as a bludgeoning weapon, if it comes to that.

If she spots someone else out at night, she'll pause a decent distance away and signal for Maurice to sit, making it clear he's with her and not one of the wild animals.]

Would you like company? There's safety in numbers.

[Wolves prefer prey that's alone, they'll isolate an animal from its herd. It seems best to stick together.]

it speaks ; closed to five

[thephix]

[It isn't Max that finds him first. Max is distracted at best and slowly losing her mind at worst, but the former mostly wins out; she's fine so long as she stays busy, it gives her an argument against the voice telling her that she's only making things worse, being here.

But that's a problem for another day.

The point is that Maurice — who's spent so long being a source of comfort to Max, learning how her moods work as best as his mind can, and who's been rewarded for learning those skills, even though it wasn't necessarily intentional — sees someone that his nose identifies as young, and who seems to be struggling in the way that Max has struggled, many times, and he believes he knows how to help.

When things start to get truly grim for Five, he'll find Maurice appearing at his side, nudging his big nose into Five's hands, trying desperately to get his attention.

Let him help! He knows how to be a good boy and help!]

it speaks : closed to mohinder

[thephix]

[The thoughts are not new.

The difference, this time, is that they are coming from an outside source instead of her own mind, and somehow that makes them far more difficult to ignore. She does her best at first, focusing on all the work that needs to be done. Idle hands are the devil's tools. If she can keep busy, she can ignore the voice, she can tell herself that it's wrong. It might be right that she's a monster, that she's only caused pain and destroyed lives with every breath, but not here. Here, she hasn't hurt anyone, she hasn't killed anyone, she's only trying to help as best she can.

One night, she finally kills one of the wolves instead of just driving it back. It wasn't what she'd wanted, but desperation had required it, lest she risk losing Maurice. It's an animal, she tries to tell herself, one that had been — changed by this place. She did what she had to do.

It gives the voice a real foothold. It was right about her, wasn't it? There's so much blood on her hands they can't be used for anything good, they can only bring more bloodshed. If she stays here, an interloper, she'll only bring so much more pain to the others. Even Maurice, who she knows will be hurt by her disappearance, will be better off without her in the end. She's going to get him killed if she keeps taking him out to fight against the wolves. He'll be much safer, locked in the house where Thirteen can find him in a few hours. There's a note for Thirteen, too, short and sweet, so she knows better than to come looking.

It seems like the sort of business to be done during the night, but it's a clear day as Max begins the trek to the basin. A long time ago, she bought a body from a morgue, one that looked like Amelia Corelli, falsified dental records to help sell the deception, and then she'd dumped the body in the Hudson to be found a few weeks later. It's only fitting that her real death should be in the water, too. There won't be any coming back from it, if she slips under the ice. No mess to be found, no way for her to change her mind.

So Max walks, determined to find her end.

Unbeknownst to her, Thirteen left a window partially open, and as soon as Maurice finds it, he wriggles his way through the small gap and starts to follow Max's trail. He doesn't know what's going on, only that something is wrong. When he catches another scent nearby, a somewhat familiar one, he changes track and follows that scent until he finds Mohinder.

Maurice sits right in front of him and barks. Loudly.]

( open ) the aurora — ;

[birkenstock]

i. earlier in the month ;

[ When the lights come back on across the whole town, to say it comes to Barbie as something of a surprise would be an understatement. In her thick winter coat still zipped up to her neck, she'd just returned to the Snowjo Dojo Casa Dreamhouse she shares with Ken and the other fellow who looks so much like Ken but isn't Ken, and now to investigate the commotion, she steps right back out again.

It isn't just the house, which admittedly could use more than a few fixes than just the electricity and proper heating, but everything else in the streets and in neighbouring buildings seems to come alive.

She breathes out an exhale of relief and surprise, and then finds you wandering out as well. ]

Can you believe this?

[ And oh, as she tilts her head up towards the crisp wintry sky, the lights that dance and shimmer above them seem so incredibly beautiful too. She's never seen such a thing before, and it shows in the awe in her expression.]

ii. later in the month ;

[ Of course, some weeks later as the month starts to draw to a close, and after becoming rather comfortable with having all of the familiar electronics again, she'll be watching the Aurora Borealis (she's since learned what it is) when she starts to see horrifying visions start to appear through the lights in the sky.

Barbie can't seem to pull her gaze away from them no matter how hard she tries, like watching a horrible trainwreck and having to know how it ends just to appease some deeply anxious part of her — even knowing that seeing it all will only make her feel just that much more anxious. ]

What —

[ Families being pulled apart; children terrified and alone in their rooms, curled up on their beds. A woman calling for her father to come with her. And there is so much ... death. So much loss.

It seizes something cold and harsh in Barbie's chest, makes her suddenly shiver with the emotional weight of what she's witnessed. Her eyes fill with tears before she is interrupted by something — or perhaps someone: you. ]

Oh!

[ She swallows as a cold heavy tear slips down her cheek. ]

I'm sorry. That was — you didn't happen to see all of that too, did you?

General, One

[solitarysoul]

Ah...sorry. I didn't mean to. [The boy with the oversized coat and the rifle on his back offers a nervous smile in return.]

...Toothpaste? [Right, he hadn't thought about brushing his teeth lately. It wasn't the top of the list for hygine items for him. He looks at the shelf. God, he recognized none of these. Not that he had a chance to go shopping when he was in the army, but all of the things here looked too colorful to be anything he'd used.] They're all kind of the same, aren't they?

IT SPEAKS PT. II (ft. an unnecessarily long tagin)

[fidior]

[ He's heard it, too — soft at first and then progressively louder. It should be an impossible thing, that ancient and cold voice that haunts the edges of his mind. To hear a voice so palpable.... It is not a thing that should be spoken of aloud, and Edward has not.

There is certainly no question of his allegiance to the Church of England, but Edward is not a particularly God-fearing man, nor do such things occupy his daily thoughts. But this is a thing that speaks of its own will, addressing him like a phantom whispering just beyond the shell of his ear, or perhaps coming from within it. This is a thing that would be deemed of the supernatural, and met with fear, horror, aversion, to any whom he might confess the experience to. Certainly, it would be met with judgment. And yet, if the Devil lives within him, then doesn't he deserve for it to? If a soul can truly be Damned, then his certainly has been.

As his days here have passed, he hasn't lost the thought that this may indeed be some sort of Hell, but he has tried to carry on through it. He's fallen into routines, obstinate and proud on the surface, keeping his posture straight and jaw firm: taking a small cabin on the outskirts of town and patrolling there. Moving inwards through the day to sweep through Milton, make sure things are in order, speak to others. Check in on some. It's what he was doing so recently, making his way to the community center, carrying the weight of the stone within him that only grows heavier with each passing day. The voice flutters from within, words creeping up from the depths of himself, trying to escape through his throat no matter how much he swallows them down. Coward. Disloyal. Useless. Failure. How could you do what you've done?

You should have died a long time ago.

No matter how proudly he tries to carry himself on the surface, it has worn on him; he's tired, dark eyes weary, and in moments when he is alone, his posture breaks, shoulders slumped. But in this moment, he still has purpose, wandering the community hall as he often does, nodding to a few familiar faces. He travels the same as always, with his shotgun strapped to his back, though it's more for some decorum than anything else: a way to make appearances, to maintain order.

Eventually he makes his way to a familiar spot, where Kate Marsh can often be found, one of those he takes special care to visit, to check on, to make certain that she has food and water and warmth. He sees her sadness, her weariness; a dark thing that leaks through the soft sweetness of her, he'd seen it on that very day he'd first met her. But the sight of the young woman's cot draws him to a quick pause as he takes in the small array of items placed there, certainly with intention.... he recognises her few, precious things, violin and Bible, some books....

Something to the sight.... makes his heart skip an odd beat. Something has been spreading through the town; perhaps most of them feel it. A heaviness. An evil? Whatever it may be..... his throat feels slick. The man looks quickly around, then mores towards the outside, asking a few people along the way if they've seen Miss Kate. The population here is small; most have learned each other's names, and eventually someone nods and gestures. Quickly nodding in polite gratitude, Edward hurries off that way. The thought persists, and he remembers when they'd finally acted on the order to abandon ship. How many of the men had brought some of their precious items with them — back when they'd thought there was still hope.

(And then, as they began to realise they would die, many had left their things in piles. Neat stacks, one last effort of dignity, for some.)

Is this a goodbye?

It isn't difficult to track her, with the snow being so light. Her footsteps haven't been obscured, and Little moves almost at a run, unsure what exactly he may find. Is she leaving — trying to leave? This is a precarious area; he hasn't explored out here yet, and especially with the wolves that have been moving in closer....

It would be so easy for her to die out here, he thinks, the thought that drives him faster, harder, though the landscape becomes more difficult to traverse and he has to slow down a few times to find even footing, to hike his way upwards.

Then, he sees her. And it takes him a moment to really understand — where she's standing. What she means to do. When it comes, it's a vice-grip around that stone inside of him, making it feel heavier, tighter. One of his own hands is already lifting into the air when Kate takes notice of him and startles, hand raising as though to halt him. Edward does stop, freezes, not daring to move closer. His eyes can't hide the panic within them, wide and round, and the girl's words are like daggers.

'Do... do you think it would be enough?' ]

Miss Kate. [ He calls quietly, more of a plea than any command. He stays where he is, though struggling against the pressing need to immediately get her away from that ledge. ] I'm sorry for startling you. I was worried.

[ Edward swallows, voice gentle despite its slight tremour. Rather than answer that aching question, if he can get her looking back at him.... ]

What's happened? Please— tell me.

( open ) the hour of the wolf — ;

[birkenstock]

[ Barbie is just minding her own business in a newly rejuvenated abandoned town in the frozen tundra, as you do, when she hears ... well, she hears the sound of low growls, maybe a little whimpering, and the pattering of canine feet. She can only assume that these are dogs, strays maybe, and they're probably hungry and looking for scraps. It's cold and food is scarce even for them in their fur coats; she can totally understand.

And no, she doesn't have a whole lot but she's certain she can find a loaf of bread somewhere in the town hall that the others won't mind sharing with cute, fluffy —

Wait.

Those too-bright green eyes don't look okay. Or normal and dog-like. When one steps out past the too-dark shadow and further into the light, she takes one shaky step back. The growls suddenly don't sound so harmless anymore, and the whimpering was more than likely entirely imagined.

Her voice is too quiet, even a little shaky when she says: ]

You're not friendly at all, are you?

[ They start to advance and it all happens so fast. Like a blur of dark, matted fur and specks of bright green, they begin to chase after her. And Barbie, thankfully wearing proper boots and not high heels, tries to outrun them, shouting for help as she passes by lit houses. ]

Please! Help!