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maskormenacelogs2015-07-24 08:43 pm
maskormods) wrote in maskormenacelogs2015-07-24 08:43 pm
Entry tags:
- !event log,
- jaime reyes | blue beetle,
- † bartimaeus | n/a,
- † commander shepard | blasto,
- † dorian pavus | lucerni,
- † eobard thawne | reverse flash,
- † gazelle | n/a,
- † grey | n/a,
- † kanaya maryam-lalonde | psychopomp,
- † peter parker | spider-man,
- † roxy lalonde | rogue of void,
- † sabriel | abhorsen,
- † wally west | kid flash
ON THIS JOURNEY TO THE PAST
WHO: The ImPorts signed up here
WHERE: Mask or Menace: Past Edition! Welcome to 1984.
WHEN: From 11 AM to 10 PM on July 24th.
WHAT: A glimpse of Heropa from the past, with three options available to you: an attack from the USSR, a protest against the totalitarian government, and a peek into the government's brainwashing centre.
WARNINGS: Violence. Please let us know if you have any questions HERE, and remember that there are two NPCs that you may play with as you wish detailed HERE.
OPTION A: SABOTAGE FROM THE USSR
You're in De Chima at the corner of Turing Avenue. There's a parade hailing the chrome streets (chrome, you think, why shiny and chrome?). Or you think it's a parade -- at first. There is confetti, yes, but it happens to be silver and highly reflective -- kind of blinding, actually. You squint as mild sunlight beam off the endless confetti falling. You don't look up, for fear of getting some in your eyes. The air feels rather... Humid. But this is Virginia, you think. Virginia in the spring isn't without a little moisture.
This isn't a parade, you soon realize. Or it's not like any parade you've ever been to before. There are people walking in the streets, yes, and they are milling the same direction, but they're all wearing freshly starched labcoats. They take no notice of you, these men and women in their labcoats. They are focused on their destination.
Follow them, you think. But -- that's weird. You felt no other impulse to follow them, despite that thought. It was like someone else had instructed you, but in your own special brain voice. Weird. You follow them.
The walking labcoats stop at a large, marbled stage in the heart of De Chima. You know for a fact this gray marbled stage isn't in the De Chima that you probably have visited. Sitting onto the elevated stage is a space probe. You gaze upon it, perhaps feeling anxious or excited or nonchalant. Your imPort tattoo begins to itch, and you might idly scratch it amidst all those emotions.
It is mesmerizing, you think. But hold up -- this time you KNOW that thought did not belong to you! What gives!
Countdown to release. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.
There's that voice in your head again.
Your imPort tattoo is now really itching.
You know this is a countdown to something BAD. Probably. You're now presented with a dilemma:
A. run away.
OR
B. investigate the thing that is being counted down to.
IF YOU CHOOSE A then you will safely flee the scene. You will safely get five blocks away, and you will look back to catch glimpses of what appears to be small explosions firing off all around. It could almost be like gunfire, except for the brightness and intensity.
IF YOU CHOOSE B then you might weave in between these labcoats, virtually unnoticed, as the countdown continues.
"Today," booms a voice over the crowd. The speaker doesn't seem to be immediately present in the throng, his voice is carried over floating loudspeakers that encircle the space probe. "Is the day that we once and forever dominate that great and final frontier. Today is the day that we extinguish the Soviet threat."
Seven. Six.
Your imPort tattoo is practically burning whenever that voice in your head says a number. Maybe there's a correlation?
"We will own the skies. We will embrace the stars above the sickle."
Two. One. Lift off, comrade.
That confetti latches onto the skin of those labcoatted people. Sabotage, you think -- or is that you thinking it? That silvery confetti latches on and something strange happens: the skin of those men and women begin to erupt with tiny, even inches-long quasars. People scream in horror and agony, many drop to their knees -- some begin to vanish in a whirl of particles.
You can try to help these people. Perhaps these quasars will respond to magic, or can be healed away -- just don't get too close to one, you may feel the burn of unnatural particle physics. And be warned, those destined to die along this timeline already have. You may try to track down that signal in your head -- that voice, that was a signal, wasn't it? It would take you to the sewer below your feet, where there would be a bunker empty of people but full of laboratory tools. You may reason out that your technologically advanced imPort tattoo was in part a reaction to this attack, and that's why you could intercept this specific Soviet communication.
OPTION B: PROTEST
What might wake your character up is the sound of sirens, of alarms, airhorns and gunshots; chaos and a steady, monotonous voice over a loudspeaker. Opening their eyes, the street they'll find themselves on is predominately obscured by smoke, although blinking lights can be periodically seen through the thick clouds.
Out of the fog, someone hands your character a gas-mask. "Careful," a voice says, in a Georgian accent that may be familiar to some. He's not speaking to your character, though, but to someone else lost in the smog as well. "They always start out with the smoke so y'won't see it if they start shootin' tranqs into the crowd! They only ever brought out the nerve gas one time, but I don't trust 'em not t'try it -- my leg ain't been the same since the last time."
"Disperse at once. Disperse at once. You are in direct violation of the Peaceful Compliance Act. All dissenters will be found guilty of crimes against our country and penalized accordingly. Disperse at once. If you are apprehended do not resist. Do not resist."
The sounds and lights make it hard not to want to listen, but soon the smoke clears as a group of people -- about eight of them -- disperse it with a piece of technology that resembles a grappling hook but appears to also have similar function to a swiss army knife in that it has a feature that acts now as a fan. The group of people are in uniform, navy blue jackets and pants with a different red number on the back of each jacket. None of them seem to notice your characters, and if spoken to they won't appear to hear them, either, but there may be a reason for that; the shrill, tinny sound of the alarm blares louder and each of the group falls heavily to their knees or simply collapses altogether with tranquilizer darts in their bodies. The darts flash in sequence with the other flashing lights, which now are more clearly recognized as large, globe-like bulbs patterned along the streets on poles like streetlamps, but also very clearly unlike streetlamps; whatever is in the dart seems to react to the noise, as each member of the group begins convulsing violently before another group, uniformed mostly in white with red and blue piping, suddenly appears to collect the protestors. Now that the smoke has cleared your characters will be able to see what recognizably must be a government vehicle, and an eerily silent chopper hovering above; one of these uniformed officials is spraying down the street where it a message had been painted:
NO MORE WILL WE LET OURSELVES BE SILENT.
WE WILL SPEAK & WE WILL THINK & WE WILL NOT ASK PERMISSION.
If your character has not already dispersed themselves aside to the sidewalk or inside one of the many buildings that surround this street, a militant will approach them, smiling sweetly behind their opaque blue glasses.
"There is a curfew in effect, you had better get inside," they say; there is a pin on their lapel that flashes in time with the larger, globe-like lights. A few of those lights, it may now be noticed, have been shattered, presumably by the now-apprehended group in blue. "It's for your own safety. We can't keep you safe if you won't cooperate. Go inside or we will take you to a safer place."
The buildings around are a combination of houses and what appear to be nondescript shelters designed for the very purpose of entering for the night if caught away from home at curfew for whatever reason; clearly there is no excuse to be out past this time. There are beds, there is a kitchen with bland but edible food, there are TVs with five channels but no remotes. The lights turn on and off themselves; this is not within your character's control. It's an eerie space, but your characters may spend their time there. If they were defiant to the official before, however, they may find themselves someplace else entirely for the duration of their stay -- the brainwashing chambers described below.
OPTION C: BRAINWASHING
When your character first opens their eyes again, they'll find that they're quite comfortable, seated in a soft chair, a cushion behind their head and an odd sensation of relaxation washing through them, a faint tingling that begins from the bottoms of their toes up to the tops of their heads. It's only moments later, once they've acclimatized, that they'll see that they've been confined, snug straps around their arms, legs, and most importantly, their heads; there are blinders on either side of their faces, ensuring that they're forced to stare directly forward.
Music plays in the background, a quiet, pleasant drone. It shifts from one moment to the next, and should someone be so inclined to break it down, it's hard to pin down what instrument is playing. Is it the piano? Strings? The flute? Either way, it's sweet and soothing, albeit a mite repetitive. In front of them are TV screens, and a woman's face appears on it, her features even and pleasing to the eye. She smiles, and it's a comforting expression, something deeply maternal in the cant of her head and in the tilt of her lips. Most will find themselves drawn to watching her lips, even moreso once the flashing lights behind her kick in, quick and disorienting.
"Your elected policymakers are the mothers and fathers of your daily lives. You needn't worry about anything, and you will be left wanting for nothing. They will take care of your every need. They know what is best for you. They know what your skills are, and what they are not. They know how you can best use them to be truly happy, and to help others in return. They will make sure that you feel complete at the end of each and every day."
The patter goes on like this for a while until the music and flashing lights come to an end, leaving only the woman's face on the screen. She smiles, this time with her teeth, and asks one last question: "Don't you want to be happy?"
Once the session is over, your characters will find themselves freed, and once they rise to their feet, they will see others in the same room to them who had been in the very same predicament. Be careful not to stumble -- even when they're able to stand, they'll find their limbs loose and their tongues thick for some time afterwards, as if they've been drugged. And even if they decide to discuss what they've seen, there's an ominous red light flashing in the upper right corner of the room... a camera, perhaps?
If they make their way out, they won't be able to get very far. At most, they will have access to a room that betrays the fact that they've been watched through a one way mirror and an office, walls lined with VHSs labeled from #001 to #020. Lastly, they will be able to look through a one-way mirror of their own, seeing another line of people strapped to chairs, watching a similar, though not identical, video to the one that they were shown.
You will have a choice for which period of brainwashing has just taken place: either your character will feel warm and comforted by the video, and feel a great sense of affection for the government and the facility at large, or they will be aware that something is awry, and that a great injustice has been done to them. It's up to the imPorts to discuss what just happened amongst themselves.
WHERE: Mask or Menace: Past Edition! Welcome to 1984.
WHEN: From 11 AM to 10 PM on July 24th.
WHAT: A glimpse of Heropa from the past, with three options available to you: an attack from the USSR, a protest against the totalitarian government, and a peek into the government's brainwashing centre.
WARNINGS: Violence. Please let us know if you have any questions HERE, and remember that there are two NPCs that you may play with as you wish detailed HERE.
OPTION A: SABOTAGE FROM THE USSR
You're in De Chima at the corner of Turing Avenue. There's a parade hailing the chrome streets (chrome, you think, why shiny and chrome?). Or you think it's a parade -- at first. There is confetti, yes, but it happens to be silver and highly reflective -- kind of blinding, actually. You squint as mild sunlight beam off the endless confetti falling. You don't look up, for fear of getting some in your eyes. The air feels rather... Humid. But this is Virginia, you think. Virginia in the spring isn't without a little moisture.
This isn't a parade, you soon realize. Or it's not like any parade you've ever been to before. There are people walking in the streets, yes, and they are milling the same direction, but they're all wearing freshly starched labcoats. They take no notice of you, these men and women in their labcoats. They are focused on their destination.
Follow them, you think. But -- that's weird. You felt no other impulse to follow them, despite that thought. It was like someone else had instructed you, but in your own special brain voice. Weird. You follow them.
The walking labcoats stop at a large, marbled stage in the heart of De Chima. You know for a fact this gray marbled stage isn't in the De Chima that you probably have visited. Sitting onto the elevated stage is a space probe. You gaze upon it, perhaps feeling anxious or excited or nonchalant. Your imPort tattoo begins to itch, and you might idly scratch it amidst all those emotions.
It is mesmerizing, you think. But hold up -- this time you KNOW that thought did not belong to you! What gives!
Countdown to release. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.
There's that voice in your head again.
Your imPort tattoo is now really itching.
You know this is a countdown to something BAD. Probably. You're now presented with a dilemma:
A. run away.
OR
B. investigate the thing that is being counted down to.
IF YOU CHOOSE A then you will safely flee the scene. You will safely get five blocks away, and you will look back to catch glimpses of what appears to be small explosions firing off all around. It could almost be like gunfire, except for the brightness and intensity.
IF YOU CHOOSE B then you might weave in between these labcoats, virtually unnoticed, as the countdown continues.
"Today," booms a voice over the crowd. The speaker doesn't seem to be immediately present in the throng, his voice is carried over floating loudspeakers that encircle the space probe. "Is the day that we once and forever dominate that great and final frontier. Today is the day that we extinguish the Soviet threat."
Seven. Six.
Your imPort tattoo is practically burning whenever that voice in your head says a number. Maybe there's a correlation?
"We will own the skies. We will embrace the stars above the sickle."
Two. One. Lift off, comrade.
That confetti latches onto the skin of those labcoatted people. Sabotage, you think -- or is that you thinking it? That silvery confetti latches on and something strange happens: the skin of those men and women begin to erupt with tiny, even inches-long quasars. People scream in horror and agony, many drop to their knees -- some begin to vanish in a whirl of particles.
You can try to help these people. Perhaps these quasars will respond to magic, or can be healed away -- just don't get too close to one, you may feel the burn of unnatural particle physics. And be warned, those destined to die along this timeline already have. You may try to track down that signal in your head -- that voice, that was a signal, wasn't it? It would take you to the sewer below your feet, where there would be a bunker empty of people but full of laboratory tools. You may reason out that your technologically advanced imPort tattoo was in part a reaction to this attack, and that's why you could intercept this specific Soviet communication.
OPTION B: PROTEST
What might wake your character up is the sound of sirens, of alarms, airhorns and gunshots; chaos and a steady, monotonous voice over a loudspeaker. Opening their eyes, the street they'll find themselves on is predominately obscured by smoke, although blinking lights can be periodically seen through the thick clouds.
Out of the fog, someone hands your character a gas-mask. "Careful," a voice says, in a Georgian accent that may be familiar to some. He's not speaking to your character, though, but to someone else lost in the smog as well. "They always start out with the smoke so y'won't see it if they start shootin' tranqs into the crowd! They only ever brought out the nerve gas one time, but I don't trust 'em not t'try it -- my leg ain't been the same since the last time."
"Disperse at once. Disperse at once. You are in direct violation of the Peaceful Compliance Act. All dissenters will be found guilty of crimes against our country and penalized accordingly. Disperse at once. If you are apprehended do not resist. Do not resist."
The sounds and lights make it hard not to want to listen, but soon the smoke clears as a group of people -- about eight of them -- disperse it with a piece of technology that resembles a grappling hook but appears to also have similar function to a swiss army knife in that it has a feature that acts now as a fan. The group of people are in uniform, navy blue jackets and pants with a different red number on the back of each jacket. None of them seem to notice your characters, and if spoken to they won't appear to hear them, either, but there may be a reason for that; the shrill, tinny sound of the alarm blares louder and each of the group falls heavily to their knees or simply collapses altogether with tranquilizer darts in their bodies. The darts flash in sequence with the other flashing lights, which now are more clearly recognized as large, globe-like bulbs patterned along the streets on poles like streetlamps, but also very clearly unlike streetlamps; whatever is in the dart seems to react to the noise, as each member of the group begins convulsing violently before another group, uniformed mostly in white with red and blue piping, suddenly appears to collect the protestors. Now that the smoke has cleared your characters will be able to see what recognizably must be a government vehicle, and an eerily silent chopper hovering above; one of these uniformed officials is spraying down the street where it a message had been painted:
NO MORE WILL WE LET OURSELVES BE SILENT.
WE WILL SPEAK & WE WILL THINK & WE WILL NOT ASK PERMISSION.
If your character has not already dispersed themselves aside to the sidewalk or inside one of the many buildings that surround this street, a militant will approach them, smiling sweetly behind their opaque blue glasses.
"There is a curfew in effect, you had better get inside," they say; there is a pin on their lapel that flashes in time with the larger, globe-like lights. A few of those lights, it may now be noticed, have been shattered, presumably by the now-apprehended group in blue. "It's for your own safety. We can't keep you safe if you won't cooperate. Go inside or we will take you to a safer place."
The buildings around are a combination of houses and what appear to be nondescript shelters designed for the very purpose of entering for the night if caught away from home at curfew for whatever reason; clearly there is no excuse to be out past this time. There are beds, there is a kitchen with bland but edible food, there are TVs with five channels but no remotes. The lights turn on and off themselves; this is not within your character's control. It's an eerie space, but your characters may spend their time there. If they were defiant to the official before, however, they may find themselves someplace else entirely for the duration of their stay -- the brainwashing chambers described below.
OPTION C: BRAINWASHING
When your character first opens their eyes again, they'll find that they're quite comfortable, seated in a soft chair, a cushion behind their head and an odd sensation of relaxation washing through them, a faint tingling that begins from the bottoms of their toes up to the tops of their heads. It's only moments later, once they've acclimatized, that they'll see that they've been confined, snug straps around their arms, legs, and most importantly, their heads; there are blinders on either side of their faces, ensuring that they're forced to stare directly forward.
Music plays in the background, a quiet, pleasant drone. It shifts from one moment to the next, and should someone be so inclined to break it down, it's hard to pin down what instrument is playing. Is it the piano? Strings? The flute? Either way, it's sweet and soothing, albeit a mite repetitive. In front of them are TV screens, and a woman's face appears on it, her features even and pleasing to the eye. She smiles, and it's a comforting expression, something deeply maternal in the cant of her head and in the tilt of her lips. Most will find themselves drawn to watching her lips, even moreso once the flashing lights behind her kick in, quick and disorienting.
"Your elected policymakers are the mothers and fathers of your daily lives. You needn't worry about anything, and you will be left wanting for nothing. They will take care of your every need. They know what is best for you. They know what your skills are, and what they are not. They know how you can best use them to be truly happy, and to help others in return. They will make sure that you feel complete at the end of each and every day."
The patter goes on like this for a while until the music and flashing lights come to an end, leaving only the woman's face on the screen. She smiles, this time with her teeth, and asks one last question: "Don't you want to be happy?"
Once the session is over, your characters will find themselves freed, and once they rise to their feet, they will see others in the same room to them who had been in the very same predicament. Be careful not to stumble -- even when they're able to stand, they'll find their limbs loose and their tongues thick for some time afterwards, as if they've been drugged. And even if they decide to discuss what they've seen, there's an ominous red light flashing in the upper right corner of the room... a camera, perhaps?
If they make their way out, they won't be able to get very far. At most, they will have access to a room that betrays the fact that they've been watched through a one way mirror and an office, walls lined with VHSs labeled from #001 to #020. Lastly, they will be able to look through a one-way mirror of their own, seeing another line of people strapped to chairs, watching a similar, though not identical, video to the one that they were shown.
You will have a choice for which period of brainwashing has just taken place: either your character will feel warm and comforted by the video, and feel a great sense of affection for the government and the facility at large, or they will be aware that something is awry, and that a great injustice has been done to them. It's up to the imPorts to discuss what just happened amongst themselves.
no subject
[ This is all wrong. The voice in his head. The itch in his skin. He doesn't even notice that part until the second time he scratches, and then it's all he can think about. What's happening here? What is that thing, the gold thing with the panels like wings from either side? Grey has never seen one before.
This is wrong.
Part of him wants to run. As the itching intensifies, he wants to run, but he doesn't. He needs to stay and understand. This feels like it ought to be a dream, but it's not a dream. He doesn't think so, anyway. It feels, smells, and seems too real for that.
He's expecting a launch. Instead, he sees people going down, and something on them like their skin is exploding. Horrified, he bends down to them, at first trying to put out the fire with his own hands and clothes, and then realising that the confetti is what's spreading it.
He quickly bends down, grabs an injured person, and pulls their arm around his shoulders. His own arm goes around their waist, and then he's hauling them away from the street, looking for shelter of any kind. A house, a shop. Anything with an open door. If he doesn't get away from the confetti, the person in his arms is going to die. He looks to anyone he can for help. Help him. Help these people, get them away from the danger!
They're dying. They're all dying, and he doesn't know how to save them. Help him. ]
2 - A - Aftermath
[ He's sitting by the side of the road, his eyes on what's left of the carnage. The area has been sealed off. Investigations are ongoing. There are burns on his hands. Unnatural burns, from the fires he'd tried in vain to put out.
He turns his hands over, and a word rises to the surface of his skin. It makes a new tattoo there.
COMRADE .
It's the word he heard in his head, when the confetti fell. Comrade. Comrade. Someone had called him that. Someone had done it. And someone thought he was in league with them because of it. What does it mean? Where is it from?
The word fades again, while Grey looks up and worries that someone might have seen. He wants someone to explain it, but he doesn't know who to ask. And he doesn't know why he's here, or how he got there or how he can get back.
His hands curl into fists. So many people had died and he still doesn't understand any of this. He needs to get back. He needs to get home. But most of all, he wants to understand. He puts his head in his hands, fingers running through thick, already messy black hair and fraying it all the more. The burns hurt, but he doesn't care about that.
He wants to go home. Comrade, he thinks. I want to go home.. ]
2
She leans forward to look at Grey, following his eyeline to his forearm, pondering the word there. Comrade. She'd heard it too, at first uncertain it was coming from outside of her at all, though that wasn't the word that stood out to her most. She isn't really sure what to say about it, exactly. ]
Whoever they were, I doubt they could really be considered our friends.
no subject
and seeing at once that she is not. Her arm.
Her arm.
His assumption, made before he even recognises it as such, is that this was deliberate. Someone caught her and punished her - either the people who were attacked, or the people who did the attacking. One of those two groups must be responsible. He looks angry, but not shocked or upset. Strangely enough, this is a sight that's familiar to him.
All he does is reach for her, for her other hand, and his eyes search her face. He nods to the wounded arm, and turns his own wrist around to show her the word 'Pain'. Does it hurt? Does she need someone, a medical someone? Others had been injured. They can find someone to help. ]
no subject
I'm fine. Don't worry about it. [ Veins of green web throughout her eyes, bloodshot, and he'll notice she's speaking through grit teeth, a tremor running through the hand she holds up. The only reason her breathing isn't labored is because she isn't breathing at all, but it's plain to see that she's exerting a lot of effort to put the pain out of mind. It's extreme, but it isn't unbearable, and she's intent on bearing it. ]
We need to get home. That's far more important than my injuries now.
no subject
how ?
[ The word vanishes quickly, and Grey's eyes flicker around the streets. He's wary of being watched, wary of someone picking on them. Wary that someone might see Kanaya's hurt arm and try to do something about it.
He's still worried about the arm, too. She looks so tired. He lets out a little breath, and puts his hand over hers. ]
you should be lying down
wounds like that can kill . i can help
[ If she lets him. He knows how stubborn Kanaya is; he doesn't think she'll let him. ]
no subject
I don't die very easily, Grey. It takes a very special and specific effort. [ She lifts her stub, the lack of weight to it still disorienting her. ] This? This could never kill me. Even if I lost every drop of blood through it, I would still shamble onward.
[ That perhaps is the drawback of not detailing exactly what being undead means for her, but the explanations are always so tedious. Sometimes, actions prove the point much more succinctly.
His "how?" still rings through her thoughts, they need some kind of direction, and she has yet to find it. They're here for a reason, most likely. It's just a matter of determining what's going on and who brought them. She moves to rise to her feet, but catches herself as she prepares to boost herself with her left hand. That won't work. Bloodloss perhaps messing with her thoughts, that can always be a pesky issue. She shifts to the right instead, and stands up, looking down the street both ways. ]
Suppose we'll need to find our "how". We won't do that sitting here.
no subject
He sighs, the most audible thing he ever does, and he lifts his eyebrows pointedly at her. ]
you need to lie down
[ Words on his face again. But then he gestures to himself, and holds out his arms. He can carry her, or at least support her while she walks. Honestly, he thinks that's the only way she's going anywhere today. ]
let me help
please .
no subject
Grey, I'm not lying down. I can't-- We can't just sit here and wait for a solution to fall in our laps! It's just my arm. If I were missing a leg, perhaps you could carry me, but those...they're both in top form.
[ If he really wanted to help, he could give blood, but she's hesitate to mention it because she knows he'll stretch his neck out for her the moment she suggests it. Grey can be even worse than she is about undermining himself for the sake of others, and that's saying a lot. She has to take care of him, too, and that includes making sure he doesn't hurt himself trying to help her.
As a way of compromise, she crosses over to his left, bracing her good hand against his shoulder. ]
There, I'll just. To steady myself, so you can help. Now, you can continue to help me find our way out of this.
no subject
The bigger question now is how they're going to do what she wants, because Grey can't see it. He doesn't know how he got here in the first place, much less how to leave. ]
what about the others
[ Because there are others. Other imports. He's seen them, and helped them. Some of them got hurt too. They can't just leave them behind. ]
no subject
[ She starts to walk forward, but something that's been bothering her every time she focuses on it rears its head once again. Her sense of direction is entirely shot, like a dissonance between what she sees and what Space tells her. She's moving, she knows she's moving, every physical sensation tells her she is, but her threads don't. To them, she might as well be standing still.
More than that, if she really looks, she can recognize a few of them. But none of them lead to what they should. Nothing is in the right place. She takes another look around them, trying to find some sense of familiarity, something to anchor the disagreement between her eyes and Space itself. ]
Grey, where are we? What city does this look like, to you?
no subject
Grey frowns, turning to her with an expression that's not exactly blank, but definitely isn't certain. He's far from widely travelled. He doesn't know this place, he's never been here before -
Or has he? He looks around, taking it in again. Taking all of it in, the shape of the buildings and the streets. It's still strange. It's strange and displaced, and the architecture feels somehow wrong to him. But he's been to De Chima rarely, even in the modern world - only for brief visits, or swear-ins, not enough time to explore. ]
not my city
[ That's the only thing he's sure about. He shakes his head. ]
not home
do you know it ?
no subject
It's De Chima. It looks like De Chima. [ She looks back to Grey, confusion crossing her face. ] And yet, it feels like Maurtia Falls.
[ She focuses on him, trying to find his thread, but it isn't where it should be. She finds it behind her, somewhere far to the south. Her grip tightens on his shoulder, just to make sure she's really feeling him. She can even smell his blood coursing in his veins. ]
And while I can see you right in front of me, all but one of my senses tells me you're here. I still have this nagging sensation that you're a thousand miles away!
Either something's very wrong with me, or it's wrong with everything else.
no subject
But then she says that he's not here, even though he most certainly is here, and his eyes slide accusingly towards her arm. Blood loss, that's what it has to be. He knew she ought to lie down.
He shows her a static tattoo - 'trouble', it says, and he glances around them. It's all trouble, and they're in trouble. They need to get out of here. If she thinks it's De Chima, then maybe there's a chance. He lifts his eyebrows, and an idea outlines itself on his cheek. It only requires one word to do so: ]
porter ?
2
[ Spider-Man crouches down next to him, uncaring of the dirt and fragments of gravel pressing into his knee through the thin material of his costume. ]
We need to get those hands looked at. Are you hurt anywhere else? Can you walk?
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His hands, though. They're burned, there's a lot of burns. They do hurt, but Grey had been ignoring that. He doesn't know anything can be done to make it better, so of course, he doesn't seek that out. He shakes his head, quickly - no, he's not hurt anywhere else. All his other scars are old. Then he stands, to show this masked man that he can in fact walk.
It makes his head surprisingly light. ]
no doctors, [ say the words appearing on his cheek. These ones definitely are meant. They're dark, and they last a good couple of minutes. The idea of doctors poking and prodding at him, like they'd done to the attack victims, is deeply unpleasant. Grey thinks he'd rather keep the burns. They'll heal on their own eventually, won't they? All scars do, if you wait long enough. ]
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Look, I'm not a big fan of getting poked or prodded at either, but those burns could get infected. Even in the best case scenario they'll scar without treatment -- [ probably with treatment, he suspects ] -- and in the worst, you could really screw up your hands.
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Screwing up his hands, though. That strikes a worried look in his eyes. He looks down at the burns again, and flexes his fingers to make them stretch. It hurts, badly - though he only grits his teeth, and makes no sound - and starts to bleed again. His eyes move back to the masked man, clearly unsure, but after a moment he nods.
All right. He needs them to be usable. He needs to be able to hold and knife and fight; these are the things Grey was raised for. If he can't do them, he'll be useless, and he can't have that. He'll see the doctor, and most likely hate every minute of it. But he'll go. ]
no needles . [ That might seem a strange insistence, coming from a boy covered in tattoos. But he's determined not to have anything injected into him. He's well aware that nanites are inside him already, and that's more than enough. ]
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[ He wishes that had come out a little more... confident. But he's pretty sure! And anyway, this poor guy needs help, needles or no needles. ]
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But his hands are bleeding, and he goes without protesting any further. ]
antibiotics
[ His tattoos repeat the word faintly to themselves, making it show up in patches of clean skin on Grey's body. It's a word he's heard, but doesn't really understand. Antibiotics. A kind of medicine, isn't it? ]
why ? it heals on its own
[ Eventually. ]