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snowblindrpg2018-04-25 04:34 am
snowblindmods) wrote in snowblindrpg2018-04-25 04:34 am
Entry tags:
- !event,
- alfie solomons (peaky blinders),
- brian thomas (marble hornets),
- event,
- gregory house (house md),
- john watson (bbc sherlock),
- junpei tenmyouji (zero escape),
- karkat vantas (homestuck),
- sherlock holmes (bbc sherlock),
- squalo superbi (khr),
- stephen strange (mcu),
- tadashi hamada (big hero 6),
- tess (scion),
- vanitas (kingdom hearts),
- will graham (hannibal)
Event: Consolidation Theory, Part Four and Five
Characters: red-marked characters and their new friends
Location: ???
Date: Morning 354, Morning and Day 355
Summary: A quiet morning and a confusing morning, or maybe they're both, or maybe they're neither.
Warnings: gore, psychological horror, warn for specifics in the subject lines
Part Four OOC Post
Part Five OOC Post
Location: ???
Date: Morning 354, Morning and Day 355
Summary: A quiet morning and a confusing morning, or maybe they're both, or maybe they're neither.
Warnings: gore, psychological horror, warn for specifics in the subject lines
Part Four OOC Post
Part Five OOC Post
cw gore, blood, violence, vomiting, chewing/cannibalism, amputation throughout the rest of threads
He remembers it in patches and blurs, and yet there are some things he can't forget.
Being chained, the frenzy.
They made no sense, the ones with the lines. Nonsensical babbling.
And what they did--
He wants to be sick. He is sick in his cell and he can't get it out of his head. The chewing, the tearing--he wonders if it's a dream when he looks down and sees the absence of an index finger, bandaged. It's gone, swallowed up by one of those bloody fiends.
Which included his brother.
No! Did they--did they even know? He peers blearily and focuses on those strange, other cells. He needs to find Sherlock. Needs to find out if he's okay.
He's not chained up now and he finds his footing, aching from being torn at, everything hurts...he's bandaged up from all the biting and tearing, he's got gauze and plasters on his face and bandages on most of the visible part of him, and even some where they'd managed to get through his clothes, though he's still wearing usual Norfinbury clothing. He has to find his brother.
Damn that Robert Miller.
He approaches the other cells, warily staying away from entering them. He's not going to get near any of those blasted monsters. Except for maybe one.]
Sherlock? Where's Sherlock?
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Red-filled eyes stare up at him. Enoch starts pushing himself to his feet.] Were you...how did you get out? Your clothes...
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cw ptsd/references to Noisy Black throughout the rest of this thread
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cw derealization
[Tess's all-red eyes project distrust. She's seen a couple of the people wandering back and forth, realized they don't have the same lines as the rest of them. That they weren't here yesterday. She's huddled on the floor of her cell against the wall, having already tried the barrier when she first thought that maybe all of them could walk through now. Everything aches, and she doesn't know who to blame, and she feels less and less connected to any kind of reality.]
cw derealization
cw's continue throughout
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He almost doesn't answer, except he realises that the sound isn't coming from the Mycroft he's expecting it to, the teenage one stood in the corner of his cell. This is Mycroft as it should be, and that's disconcerting to say the least.]
Here.
[Just one wary word.]
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cw: broken bones, asphyxiation, mangling
[England realises quickly, even through the thick haze of pain, that there's a large blank spot in his memory. Truth be told, he wishes it were larger.
He blearily begins to assess the damage to his own body. The skin he can still see beneath his tattered, bloody clothing is more bruise than true complexion. Layers of dried, crusted blood still remain in smears on his skin. One of his eyes is swollen shut. Gauze pads and tape are strewn over his body, protecting the lacerations, but these are all of little concern.
His breathing is raspy. Something has damaged his windpipe and, though England can't see it, has left a very dark ring of bruising and cuts from the edges of something digging into his skin. And breathing doesn't just hurt his throat, but also his chest; thick bandages support his torso. His rib is broken. Maybe more than one. His arm is splinted; that's broken, as well.
And then there's his foot. He doesn't want to think about his foot. It's been wrapped and splinted, but the shape of it looks wrong. There are obviously pieces out of place. Perhaps pieces missing altogether. He's not about to take off the wrappings and find out.
His gaze is tired as he peers around the room.
He hopes America didn't see anything.]
B: closed to Ginger
[Comparatively, it doesn't take England long to locate Ginger's cell. Knowing that he's no longer chained to the wall, there's only one thing he can do.
His movements are agonisingly slow. He can feel every twitch and every breath rattling pain through his body. He knows that walking isn't an option; in this state, even hobbling on his good leg and using the wall for support would be dangerous.
Humiliatingly enough, he has to crawl. Even that much is a task with only one good arm. His vision spins from the pain and occasionally he has to stop to catch his wheezing breath. But he continues wordlessly regardless of any commentary anyone might have on this turn of events.
He drags himself all the way to Ginger's cell and settles down beside her.]
C: with Ginger
[England can still be spoken to in Ginger's cell after he attends to her, of course. For however much he can contribute, with his throat in the state that it's in.]
b of course
What did they do? What happened to you? Oh England, England...
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a; cw's continue for the thread; additional hallucination, PTSD
As he opens his eyes, he sees Mary across the room, smiling. But... no. That's not her. It is her, but there's something off. She's not speaking for one thing. For another, she's perfect. Perfect hair, perfect make-up, done up and ready to face the world like always.]
You were never here.
[She shakes her head. It's an effort not to bury his face in his hands and just scream and sob. He hates this place so much. He hates Robert Miller. The dizziness has abated, as well, replaced by the pain. Lying abed isn't going to get answers, though, so John picks himself up and stumbles over to the barrier. It shows him that Tess has a new neighbor. One who looks significantly worse off than John.]
England? Bloody hell! What... what happened?
[He struggles to remember. He'd been injected, came back to the cell and Mary was there. And then... and then it's blank. Like the way some of his memories from back home just abruptly cut off, voids in his head where there should be places, people, names.]
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cw: generalized trauma but will edit as necessary
[It's hard to say how long Ginger's been awake. For anyone who can see her from their cell, it's hard to even immediately recognize her as the ever-smiling woman from the Network. Her clothing is in shreds, leaving her fairly exposed, and her hair has been cut and pulled away from her scalp, leaving it a ragged and bloody mess of a hack job. Although one of her arms, clearly broken, is splinted at her side, she has her legs curled up her stomach with the other, rocking and crying and shaking into her knees.
If it seems as if she's hiding her face, it's because she is--curling away from anyone who gets close or looks her way.]
Don't be real, don't be real...oh ow, ow.
[Ginger won't ignore anyone who tries to get her attention from where she sits talking to herself, but it's obvious enough that she's in shock, so her thoughts and focus are scattered.]
b.
[Ginger was fortunate enough not to have her legs damaged, so once the shock wears off and leads itself to a more generalized fear, she ultimately stands herself up and starts to examine the rest of the room. She has no idea what to do--her focus is still all over the place. There's no recollection in her mind of which of the red-lined captives did this to her, so there's no one person she can be afraid of...but knowing that they were touching her, grabbing her, ripping her apart...it lends itself to a general unease.
She's too nervous to go into any of the cells without prompting, but at the same time she's too kind of a woman to ignore anyone, so she'll stop at the outside of their cells, knees shaking, barely holding herself together. Now that she's standing, it's easy to see the bruised ring circling her neck. Blood's splashed across her wide-eyed face.]
Can I do anything? Can I help you?
[Her voice is ragged from what must have been screaming. At least now she's wearing what remains of England's shirt over her own, covering a bit more of her exposed skin.]
B
At the sound of Ginger's voice, a red-marked face peers out from the corner. Enoch's eyes widen at the sight of her, and he ducks back into the bathroom to answer from out of sight. His voice is halting, shaking. Whatever happened he knows he doesn't deserve her kindness right now.]
As kind as that offer is, you should- offer it to someone more badly hurt.
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A, cw mentioning of nails and amputation
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[... Everything hurts.
It hurts, and he's not sure why, but that's not what matters right now, is it?
He'd had his theories of what might happen. Some his own, some brought on by the paranoia of others. He'd expected something terrible. Something more damaging than.. whatever this was. Or being forced to forget something important. But none of it's come true. Not that he can possibly tell.]
Yeah, damn right it failed. You're just as clueless as the rest of us.
[Yep, he's arguing with a recording.]
[2]
[It's a little later that Junpei realizes something else is going on. Now that more people have woken up, eaten, and all that... Some seem to have left their cells!?
It's probably all in his head again. Still, he does have to test the barrier for himself, giving it a reasonably hard punch-- and getting nothing beyond a shooting pain up his arm as a result.
So what's going on?
Wait.
More importantly, why are those outside of the cells all people who didn't fall? Was this never even about the markings...? Then... ]
Hey!
[He'll attempt to call over anyone nearby.]
If you can get outta here, what the hell are you doing? Either help the rest of us out, too, or start working on that door!
2
Mistrust.
He stares at Junpei for another long moment, then slowly shakes his head. There is no way he is working on that door.]
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2 cw gore, blood, violence, ptsd, chewing/cannibalism, amputation throughout the rest of thread
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cw gore, blood, violence, asphyxiation, humiliation, will edit as necessary
[He's sitting in the middle of his cell, as far away from any walls as possible. For a while he's just rubbing at his eyes with his good arm, like he's trying to get at the memories behind them but he can't, he can't, he can't.
Pressing his knuckles against his mouth he just stays down on the ground for the longest time, crying silently to himself.]
B.
[Once he manages to get to his feet Flynn walks the hallway in a daze, looking for a way out. He's battered and bloody, his clothes torn, his eyes wide and wild. Even though he's staring into the cells and at the other people outside in the hallway it's not entirely clear what really registers and what not. From time to time his hand comes up to touch the dark bruises on his neck but most of the time he cradles his bandaged arm close to his body.
He's not entering any cells and ducks his head whenever he realizes he's passing someone with red lines. Sometimes a small sound escapes him; his breath is agitated and hitches but despite all that, he's breathing soundly through his nose, his mouth pressed to a firm line.
He doesn't speak.]
C.
[hit him.
... actually, please don't.]
B. -- cw panic, references to self harm possible plus previous cw's in effect for rest of thread
Peter gets up suddenly, running over to the barrier. His eyes are wide--is that--no, that can't be--]
FLYNN!?
[He's pounding frantically on the barrier.
No, this isn't happening. This can't be happening.
Everything suddenly seems too small and he can't breathe and why is he here, he can't be here--
He's hurt. He looks hurt. Peter keeps pounding frantically.]
Flynn! Over here!
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A - CW's throughout thread; also parasites and delusions
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cw teeth trauma, spine trauma
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A
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cw severely broken bones, the after effects of a beating, implications of long-term ptsd
[ Jim's not moving yet because it's taking everything in him not to cry out. He wants to, but he's not about to cry in front of the entire town and, more importantly, he's not going to let whichever one of these people hurt him see just how bad.
It's bad, though. Maybe the worst he's ever hurt. He can feel that someone popped his shoulder back into joint, and splint his leg, but it's battlefield medicine at best, and it's not enough. He can feel the way his limbs are swelling, cut off by his socks and the promise ring on his left hand.
He thinks that might be why they broke his arm. He remembers someone trying to take it from him, and he couldn't lose it, and so they grabbed him and pulled and pulled under the snow, into death -
No.
No, he can't do that now. Right now he has to get the ring and the bracelet and the sock off, but he can't - it hurts too much to do it himself.
He opens his eye again and takes a deep breath, seeking out the nearest free person and forcing himself to speak. ]
-Need help.
--
Two - For Zack and Kunsel
[ He's not proud of the fact that he didn't think about his friends until now, but it is what it is.
He's free of the jewelry and trying to catch his breath when he remembers. Zack and Kunsel are down here somewhere - his brain skitters over what that might mean - and he needs to find them.
It's a long while between when he has the thought and when he convinces himself to move. Standing - pulling himself up by the chains on the wall, leaning hard against it on his good leg - is a production, but he won't crawl. Instead he'll move painfully slowly around the perimeter of the room, keeping a sharp eye out. ]
Two cw: blood, paranoia, fracture, potential for gore
And maybe they could get them out. He'd seen people now. Seen how they could pass through barriers, so maybe.. maybe there was a way.
That was enough for him to ignore the way he wanted to crawl out of his own skin. The way his body felt like a giant bruise as he lifted himself to stand by the barrier of his cell. To finally shout out again into what felt like a void of miserable voices and pain. ] Zell! Jim!
[ His voice hoarse but still loud. Still there. ]
not here
also not here;
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One or perhaps sometime later, whichever you'd prefer
sometime later good?
works for me!
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one, cw teeth trauma, spine trauma
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cw graphic injury
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bringing my own starter (cw: ptsd and Vanitas)
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cw surgery/gore mention and self harm in prompt A; vomiting and cannibalism mention in prompt B
[He's seen enough to know. Spoke with Mycroft. Seen the more battered, the unmarked. Recognized his wounds as someone defending themselves. Seen them flinch away the way Rhys and Billy had, afraid of him despite themselves.
Flynn's initial reaction in particular reminded him of his tower victims. And it's some time after that it all begins to really sink in. It repaints the memories of the tower (all his mind has to substitute for such a foreboding gap) one by one, in all their vivid bloodiness. An exposed nerve; he hadn't even been sure of its function but it was his hand bringing the bloody blade down, a wire, carefully snaked into a gory opening.
It's happened again. But this time, there is someone at fault.
Enoch snaps.]
MILLER! WHAT DID YOU MAKE ME DO? WHAT DID YOU MAKE US DO TO THEM?
[He throws himself against his cell door, bouncing off the barrier and toppling back to the floor. With an enraged growl, he lunges back up and into it again. Again, and again.]
LACK OF MEMORY DOES NOT MAKE IT RIGHT!
[Again. Again. Again. Determined to break either it or himself.]
B
[That had been sure to scare someone. And the moment one of the victims responded, it brought all the guilt rushing back, the urge to hide somewhere so nobody would ever have to hurt at the sight of him again. If Beckett and Angel hadn't invited him to stay with them back then, if Rhys hadn't agreed with them, he certainly would have done so.
The moment he realized he was making their hurts worse, he gave up and retreated to the relative privacy of the bathroom, wedged between the toilet and a wall, as far as someone built large at the skeletal level can. Mycroft's first words to him sink in anew: [...]when you lot fancy a snack.
His first instinct is to resist the urge to vomit. Without being drugged, he has uncanny control over it. But he remembers that phrase, remembers it and gives in, desperate to purge his stomach of anything taken unwillingly.
When he's done heaving over the toilet, dry heaving long after the stinging bile - all that was in his stomach - is gone, he slumps against the wall separating himself from the open view from outside the cells, shivering in silent tears. Not again, not again. His food tray, mostly untouched save a few halfhearted sips of milk from before he began to understand, marks this cell as occupied. Should someone wander in, should he hear someone who can enter drawing near, he speaks up, ragged. He needs to warn them, whoever it is, before they can see the lines that swirl over his bruised and scratched skin.]
No- I'm one of them, I'm one of them.
A: cw surgery/gore mention and self harm, general trauma
When he hears Enoch's plaintive shouts, the commotion of him slamming around his cell, though, he does his best to push himself up again, all bandages and disorientation, to lean in the general direction of the other man's cell. He can do this, for a little while. Just to help. Just for a minute.]
Enoch? Hey. Enoch? It's Rhys. Come on. Talk to me, man.
cw surgery/gore mention and self harm, general trauma
cw surgery/gore mention and self harm, general trauma
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A (with permission)
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cw: fingernail torture, asphyxiation, hair tearing, Will's mind in general
The cell block.
The others, he tried to focus on faces but found himself distracted more by the red lines on their visible flesh and the way they seemed to stay put, despite the lack of doors. Will remembered trying to call out, but either he only imagined the sound of his voice, or the others didn't hear him.
Strange. It was all strange.
The metal collar fitted around his neck and chained to the wall. Will had tested that particular binding, nearly choking himself out a couple of times, he might have risked breaking his neck.
Except the static came, and things got a hell of a lot worse.
"Well, THAT didn't work."
'No joke.' Will's fuzzy mind supplied in response to a voice he vaguely recognized from the public available data. Miller. Robert Miller. His mind slotted the information carefully into place with the rest of the objective observations Will had made about this entire experience.
It had been horrifying fascinating. The way those faceless hands had reached for him, tearing yet not malicious and brutalizing yet with a sense of care?
Will's scalp ached where chunks of hair had been yanked out, leaving bloody patches. He could remember fingers in his hair, the brutal ripping that seemed almost an afterthought, with no specific purposes. His mouth was still raw from having the toilet paper force fed? jammed down his throat and his chest ached in a way that made him wonder if he'd inhaled some of the wet, bloody paper.
Maybe, maybe not. Time would tell.
Sitting, no longer chained in his cell, Will had his hands lifted up in front of him. They were little more than mitts at the moment, wrapped from midway up his forearm, around every finger so it appeared to be wearing bloody mittens. There wasn't a lot of blood, but enough seepage to be disquieting.
His glasses, ripped off his face by a hand reaching for his hair, then crushed under foot; he'd heard the glass break. He didn't know what had happened but eventually a hand had taken his and a shard of glass have been unceremoniously driven under the nail into the sensitive flesh of the nail body below.
Even for Will, who had experienced a wide range of pain in his life, that had been enough to wring a cry out of him. Then another and another as shards of glass were driven under each fingernail, some fingers getting it twice.
Staring at the mitts, he still felt the excruciating pain and he wasn't sure if it was due to his overactive imagination, or if the glass was still there. He really wasn't sure he wanted to check.
Eventually, Will decided to get up and focus on his surroundings. He still wasn't sure he wanted to look under the bandages and confirm the state of his fingers, so for the time being he held them against his chest as he began to check the cells. ]
Hey. [ His voice was rough, but calm and steady -whether he spoke to someone with red lines or without. ] How are you holding up?
[OOC: Feel free to catch him sitting in his cell, looking at his hands while still dazed, or perhaps he stumbles across your cell? Or ... something else off the cuff, I am open for all interactions! ]
cw's throughout thread; also delusions and parasites; derealization
Well, yesterday I was presumably exposed to experimental, mind-altering drugs intended to disrupt my memory processes, I spent the afternoon thinking I was full of spiders, and now I feel like I was run over by a truck and kind of suspect that I might personally have something to do with you and the others looking even worse than I feel.
[His gaze drifts; unfocuses. Then he's suddenly back again.]
You're--your hands...?
cw: a little disassociation
all cw's listed above continue throughout thread
all cw's listed above continue throughout thread
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cw: a little disassociation
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cw: fingernail torture, asphyxiation, hair tearing, addiction, implied eye loss
cw: fingernail torture, asphyxiation, hair tearing, addiction, implied eye loss
cw: fingernail torture, asphyxiation, hair tearing, addiction, implied eye loss
cw: fingernail torture, asphyxiation, hair tearing, addiction, implied eye loss
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cw gore, blood, violence, ptsd, chewing/cannibalism, amputation throughout the rest of threads
cw gore, blood, violence, ptsd, chewing/cannibalism, amputation throughout the rest of threads
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cw's throughout thread; also dissociation, hallucination, PTSD, self-harm
cw's throughout thread; also dissociation, hallucination, PTSD, self-harm
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cw: mention of self harm
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cw: violence, injury, vomiting, historical natural catastrophe
And yet as the people, blurred but for the red lines slashed across their skin, had torn at him for hours, Hannibal had screamed.
Hannibal has extensive control over his stomach, esophagus, and gag reflex, and is able to taste even the slightest impurities in the foods he choses, with ever so much discretion, to consume.
And yet as the hands shoved the black mold into his mouth (and eyes and nose) he had vomited so hard that his torn-up body was wracked with convulsions, so hard that it felt like his innards would be expelled through his mouth.
Hannibal has been collared and chained before, treated as a pig awaiting slaughter. He hated it, hated any infringement upon his freedom, and had made the man responsible pay so very dearly.
Now, as Hannibal sits in his cell, body bandaged but wounds itching beneath the gauze, he has no enemy to focus on, no adversary to move against, no moves to plan, no plans to enact. He lives his life like a game of chess, moving the pieces around on the board, thinking twenty moves ahead. But the chessboard has been upended, the pieces scattered.
Hannibal's head is lowered, his eyes closed, and he is focusing on his breath.
In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
His body is leaning against the mold-black wall, but in his mind he is standing in a church. Not the chapel in Palermo, however, but a church he has never been to but has contemplated many times over the years. The Carmo Convent, Lisbon. All Saints Day, 1755. Beneath his feet, the ground begins to rumble.
cw: Hannibal canon ... everything
With Hannibal being so quiet Will can't go straight to him, but as if drawn by an invisible thread, he arrives at the mouth of Hannibal's cell sooner, rather than later. ]
Hannibal. [ His friend's name came out as a startled gasp, what fog remains in his head clearing in an instant as he studied the older man. Will didn't even have time to blink, before the scene rose in his mind's eye. The slash marks, so many of them -hours worth- but there was more.
What more, Will could only fill in from his own experiences, -force feeding?- but he could see in the way Hannibal now held himself that it had been traumatic. Perhaps not in the way many others would view trauma, empathy supplied the rage felt by a caged predator who was then left with no ready target.
Crap... If they'd thought Hannibal was dangerous with a death price, Will didn't want to imagine how the older man might respond now.
He moved into Hannibal's cell, steps slow and deliberate as he announced his presence. ]
Hannibal, look at me.
cw: Hannibal canon ... everything
cw: Hannibal canon ... everything
cw: Hannibal canon ... everything
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cw: eye injury, concussion, disorientation
cw: blood, paranoia, fracture, head trauma
[ He hadn't moved much when he first awoke. Only enough to study where he was with blurry vision. To feel the pain seeping in his bones and then he'd closed his eyes again. Ended up out once more.
Then back again suddenly, heartbeat kicking up in the unintelligible shouts from a nightmare he can't remember. But he feels a little sharper than before. Sharp enough to tell there's tight wound bandages on his right wrist between his fuzzy vision. To see the blood dried on his hands and the start of scratch marks that ends under yet more bandages where the jump suit has torn.
Torn in a lot of places, in fact. Torn and spotty with patches of more blood. Some areas worse than others and now Zack's heart starts beating a million miles an hour again. Now, he pushes himself up only to curse and sink back. Catch himself with his left hand instead and push and push, like he could escape from himself somehow if he just tried hard enough. Backing away, away-
and then suddenly flung forward instead as he hits the force field. Crumples onto the floor instead and curses again. ]
The.. hell.
II.
[ At this point, it's at least sunk in that there's more people around. And they're just as badly hurt if not more so than he, himself. He can hear it in the voices, even if it also feeds his slowly ongoing headache. A part of him wants to back off. Wants to slip away into the bathroom. Barricade himself in.
But the rest of him knows he can't. Kunsel's out there. Jim and Zell have to be, too, somewhere. And he can't let things get the best of him. Not like last time. So, he ignores the trembling in his fingers and pushes himself up to hang by the wall near the barrier. Blinks slowly in surprise when he sees someone- outside of a cell? ]
Hey!
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The result is Tadashi standing barefooted and frozen, looking like a wreck with the stitches keeping the worst of the scratches on his face closed.
Slowly, he realizes who shouted.]
...Zack? Hey -- hey, it's Tadashi.
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1
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no specfic cws yet, just general horribleness
If there hadn't been enough at start he totally moved them there from elsewhere.Instead he spends a good part of the day right up next to the force field, trying his best to see anyone else who is there. He didn't keep a good tally of people yesterday, but he thinks there might be more today.
Still not up to talking, he taps out a message on his floor in morse code.*
Are there new? Who? How many? Who was before?
*He repeats the message in binary, using short for 0s and long for 1s.*
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He recognizes it's not random and it's not musical, but otherwise has no idea what's going on. It's unusual enough that he emerges from his hiding place to move closer to the sound.]
What's...what's that tapping noise?
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CW self harm, attempted suicide
Thinking about the things she might be responsible for feels horribly familiar. Despite everything, she knows rationally that it isn't her fault - that she hasn't done anything willingly, she's just being used in someone else's sick schemes. Again. It's just like back home: she's locked away, helpless, unable to do anything but watch people be hurt because of her - and just like before, there's only one way out.
There's no fanfare. No statement of intent. Angel simply gets up, kneels by the toilet, and smashes her head against it with enough force that she can feel the bone cracking around the metal ports in her skull. There's blood on the toilet, on her hands, dripping from her nose, and the last thing she sees before her head hits the cistern for a second time is the static figures coming for her.
Well.
Frick. ]
cw teeth trauma, spine trauma
Well, it sure is an experience.
He crawls and stops, rests and stops and crawls, inch by agonizing inch. But he's not fast enough, of course he's not fast enough. He makes it to the opening to her cell just as Angel goes for the second smash.]
No - An- [he tries for her name but the word is as mangled as his broken mouth. He reaches out an arm instead, though he's still too far. Just too far.]
hope it’s okay to have a helpless interloper too
we're ALL helpless here,
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CW: General trauma/possible ptsd development/disaster reference/stitches
[ Tadashi isn't inclined to move for a long time. Everything aches. Looking over at the food that's been left for him makes his stomach turn, so he leaves it where it is and shoves himself back into a corner of his cell. That's the most movement anyone will see out of him for a while. He needs to process.
Whenever he closes his eyes, he sees flashes of the accident -- or remembers the flurry of activity and the panic that took place at the hospital afterward. The same anxiety twists his gut into knots, even though there's not the question hovering on lips like there was when he was a kid -- where are my parents?
He's not sure what's brought on the connection. The cuts? The bruises? He has a nasty one on his neck, but it's no outlier when compared with the rest of his body. It might be the shoulder. Dislocated and somehow relocated while he was out. The same one that was dislocated during the earthquake...
Tadashi's breath hitches and he draws his knees up.
Can he just... go home? ]
II.
[ Later, Tadashi manages to bring himself back to the present. It's... not a lot better than the past he's been agonizing over. Now that he's able to focus on his surroundings, he's forced to remember some of the bits and pieces that happened the night before.
It takes a lot to stand on shaking legs and pad barefoot to the edge of his cell. Another step and he's out, standing in the relative openness of the corridor between the cells. Anyone who notices him will see his trademark baseball cap missing and his hair in disarray. There are claw marks on his right cheek -- the deepest of which is stitched closed near his ear. ]
Is.... Hello?
II
Yeah.
[He says, though he's pretty sure this guy isn't looking for him. He presses his back closer to the wall and squints up at him.]
Yeah, what do you want?
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CW: General trauma/possible ptsd development/disaster reference/stitches - Eye loss
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II
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cw: blood, broken bones, and a bite mark? (????)
[He rubs at his neck with his good hand, then goes back to cradling his bandaged one and stalking more or less directionlessly between the cells. He's been pacing out the area up until now, trying to search for clues, but as miserable as he is at it and in general, he'd soon decided his time was better spent checking on the others. It's either that or stay huddled in the corner, but after the last time he'd woken up to find himself in a cell... yeah, no. He's better off than some of the others he's seen (even if god his head aches), and he needs something to preoccupy himself before he crawls out of his own skin.
[(Before things get any worse.)]
[He has an obvious preference for people who look worse off or for people he knows, but he doesn't discriminate between those with or without the red lines, instead approaching them as tactfully as he can and trying to keep his voice lowered.]
Hey. How are you holding up? Do you want me to pass on a message to anyone?
[Between cells, he mostly means, but it applies just as equally to anyone who's currently immobile or too scared to approach others on their own. He's splattered with blood (none of it his own), still careful with his hand, and as scratched up as everyone else, but he's far from threatening.]
cw: hallucinations, delusions
Royce stares up at Karkat as he passes, from where he's curled up on the floor, covered in bandages, dizzy and out of it.
Voice rough and crackling: ]
Are - have you seen Tifa? Did she move to another cell? [ A beat. He clears his throat. ] Are - you real?
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cw: asphyxiation, violence, bruising, will mark others as they come up
The memory is dark and bloodshot, only coming to him in bursts of images and the memory of painful sensations.
The guilt gnaws at him anyway. For centuries all he's done is watch humanity, watch the war and strife without ever moving to assist, too afraid of what his power might bring to the world...
During the night he found he still could not act, despite that power being gone.
When he is finally free from the wall he's moving between the cells, checking on people, wanting to see if they are alright, offering what little service he can. They'd beaten him, but it hadn't been their will...
As he moves, he clutches his side and he has a noticeable limp.
Distantly he wonders if this is what mortality feels like.]
cw teeth trauma, spine trauma
But delirium brings its own dangers, too. As he's slumped against the wall of the cell, nerves on fire, the sound of limping footsteps wakes something in his vague dreams. His breathing catches, he makes a low half-panicked sound, croaking out a name and a plea - ]
Okulos, no - no, it's me - don't -
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cw: strangulation, chewing/cannibalism, blood, tooth loss, self-harm, PTSD
House can remember screaming the words at people--different people? Everything on the who and how long is a blur, but he knows there was at least on person with the red lines. Crawling the walls--trying to, anyway--sliding down again and again and again. House had been chained to the wall, a metal collar around his neck, and no matter how many times he told the idiot there was a ceiling they were hitting, it just didn't matter.
Until they'd turned on him, smearing him with the mold and filth in the cells, kicked him while he was down on his knees, sending teeth flying. He'd tried to get away from them after that, straining at the collar until black edged at his vision and his body had gone slack. The chewing hadn't been the worst. That had been awful, someone's teeth dug into his ankle and gnawing.
'Hannibal's got a buddy.' He'd thought that very loudly at the person as he'd spat blood from his mouth and kept trying to pull away. No matter how he twisted, they never let go.
Then the worst part, the person sitting in front of him, just out of House's reach, clawing themselves to pieces, looking perplexed as they splattered blood across his body, his face, into his mouth, nose. This moron had better not have a blood-borne disease. But it was being unable to stop them, feeling helpless, that had left him shrieking, this time straining at his collar to reach out, to stop this person.]
A
[When he wakes up, short a few teeth, bandaged, and still a complete mess, covered in filth and blood--some his own, a lot not his own--House just takes a moment to self-evaluate. There's no more collar, but there's tender flesh around his throat and he's pretty sure he's bruised his neck in a nice band for the memory of that. His throat feels hoarse from shouting, and still tastes like metal. His ankle has been covered with a clean bandage. And he's missing... four teeth total now, judging by his probing around with his tongue. At least Stephen isn't the only one to knock his teeth out... or maybe he is.
The doctor's eyes turn to the others in the cells, the people with the redlines. Well, okay. So. Looks like there's something wrong with everyone, judging by Miller's little manipulation experiment. House stays outside the cells at first, just observing, seeing what people are doing. He's not particular in speaking to the other victims or to the red liners as he snarks, as best he can with a face that hurts a lot:]
Rough night, buddy? That's what you get when you drink the devil's swill liquor.
B
[Later, after he's taken measure, House starts entering cells. God knows they're going to get thrashed again, anyway. Time to start trying to piece together their memories for real.]
Hey, I need you to chew on my ankle. See if you remember anything.
cw: strangulation, chewing/cannibalism, blood, tooth loss, self-harm, PTSD
[ Will had made a few rounds, and a few rounds after that but eventually he retreated to his own cell to sit down for a bit.
He had gotten back down on the floor and was staring pensively at the food that had been left for him. Will figured he should probably eat something, but the thought of food was nauseating. Which was about the time that House walked in and asked his question.
Will looked up at the man with a singularly unimpressed expression. ]
What, no barbeque sauce?
cw's continue for the thread
cw's continue for the thread
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A
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B | cw: derealization; references to delusions and parasites likely
cw: derealization; references to delusions and parasites likely
all above cw's continue throughout thread
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B: CWs plus implied eye loss
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B
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cw: bad joint breaks, blood, trauma, will add if necessary
[ It's hell. ]
[ The previous night is in bits and pieces, but he remembers enough of it to feel sick - and that's not counting the constant reminder of slow, pulsing pain that's dulled his senses enough by now for him to be able to mostly ignore it while he's not moving, even if the splints and gauze are doing shit all to help with it. ]
[ That wasn't the case hours ago. He remembers screaming in pain, probably the loudest he ever has, and even if he didn't, the soreness in his throat is still persisting. That hurt worse than what he recalled having an arm torn off felt like, or maybe it was the creatures making it worse. Didn't matter. He never cared about holding back, and he wasn't going to hold back on shouting either. ]
[ He does just that as he pushes himself off the floor, using an arm to prop himself up out of reflex - a decision he regrets immediately. The sound's raw, scratchy, and probably sounds more like an animal being tortured. ]
-- 2.
[ It doesn't last long, though, and, now on his feet, Squalo rests his back against the wall, trying to regain his breath enough to move properly. It's still coming in hitches and hisses, but he tries to asses his situation. He's still in a cell; one. There's food, but fuck that; two. He's no longer chained -- yeah, we might get somewhere with that. ]
[ He can't help but think of the irony of all this. Everything's that lead to this day, this minute, this fucking cell block. Everything that's lead them to believe the people with red lines were innocent, intact, that they weren't the ones acting off an unreasonable... so much for that. ]
[ They're fucking animals. ]
[ This time, the relative quiet is shattered by a bout of raspy, unhinged laughter. ]
-- 3.
[ Eventually, he's out of his cell. His movement is slow; not necessarily careful in the usual sense, but as if he's trying to move the upper part of his body as little as possible as he walks down the block. There's some scrapes and tears and blood on him; the bloody stains on his hair almost seem to have a smudged shape of handprints, as if someone was stroking it. ]
[ The most noticeable part, however, is that both his arms are cast and bandaged, immobilizing the elbows completely. Parts of his mechanical forearm peek through the bandages and rips in the sleeve; there's some visible cracks on it, and from the way the fingers are hanging in an unnatural flexion, it's probably lost the contact to his muscles. ]
[ There's something wild in his eyes as he stares down each person he passes; not necessarily fear but there's definite outage and hatred in it, as if his state is only barely holding him back from attacking them. (In reality, he can't be sure who did this to him, and if he goes trial and error, he expects old buddy Miller to stop him before he reaches the real culprit. Later. He can do this later.) ]
-- 4.
[ When he reaches what's supposed to be the door out, he's going to give it several kicks, as hard as he can muster, even if it makes him yell out in pain again. There's also a decent amount of swearing in between; ]
Hey asshole!! It's fair now, ain't it? You wanna show your fucking face down here?! Should I go through each one of your bitches first?
-- 5.
[ Mix and match, pick a moment in between, or hit me up for anything else! ]
3
There's only so detached she can be, though, when someone is giving her the kind of look that Squalo is throwing around. She hasn't been looked at like that since...
Since the Sanctuary thing, she supposes. When Lilith called her a bitch? Ergh. ]
Was it me? Who did, um...
[ She doesn't move from the back of her cell, but gestures lamely towards Squalo's whole situation that he has going on there. Those sure are some unfortunate injuries! Injuries that she hopefully isn't even a little bit responsible for, thanks. ]
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4
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4, after the attack
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cw: blood, head injury/concussion, eye injury, disorientation
Brothers? Sisters?
[ No, not the right kind of ringing. This isn't the four-part harmony of true Enochian. It's just ringing. ]
Where are you? Where am I?
[ His voice is a hoarse croak, tongue swollen and painful. He has a tongue. He must be possessing a vessel. Did he bite his tongue? Yes, he remembers that. It was when something struck him hard, just above the brow.
He presses his vessel's fingers gently to the bandage wrapped around his head and pulls away sharply, pain radiating across his forehead and around his eye in spiderweb-like cracks. Yes, he remembers the wet crunch of bone too, shattering on impact. That doesn't explain the bandages over his eyes, though, wet and sticky when he touches them, or the stitches he feels as he runs a hand over his vessel's hastily-shaven scalp. ]
Please. I need guidance. What am I supposed to do?
CW: general trauma and injury; see prompt-specific CWs
[Diana wakes slowly, heavy with something in her system that she's not yet aware of. Fatigue permeates her being, and she's very sore, from stinging spots on the surface of her skin to deep down in her muscles. Like she'd been exercising...
There's a stain on her jumpsuit. There are...bandages? She sits up in the bed of her cell, blinking the sleep from her eyes and flipping her hands over to look at them. They're covered in bandages. And the stains on her jumpsuit...
The familiar buzz of panic begins to fill her ears as her heartbeat picks up in her chest. Blood. She's covered in blood. She's covered in blood, and she's sore like she'd been doing something strenuous--like she'd been fighting with someone. She has a quick glance around, and everyone else is covered in bandages too. Some with far more than her. There's so much blood...
She speaks up over the sound of her ex-husband's voice becoming louder in her head.] What happened to us? Why is everyone...?
part four - B: regret [CW: suicidal ideation]
[She gets her answer quickly enough, of course. It quiets the prickle beneath her skin, but what replaces it isn't much better. After the panic and the tears, all that's left is a great, hollow pit in her stomach, and numbness that engulfs her entire being.
Everyone told her it would be like this eventually.
Diana can only lie motionless on the bed in her cell, curled up on her side and staring at the wall. Maybe she'll starve to death. Maybe she'll fall asleep and never wake up.
Her words can barely be heard outside of the confines of her cell, but they're always the same, when she can bear to speak them:] I'm sorry. I'm sorry...
[Maybe someone will come into her cell and kill her.
It's what she'd deserve.]
part five - C: assistance
[The next day doesn't ease Diana's guilt, but the numb weight in her chest is overtaken somewhat by confusion. It feels like she was asleep for too long. Did she fall asleep yesterday? She can't remember anything after talking with the unmarked captives... Surely she couldn't have slept that long?
Word of the tablet reaches her, but Diana doesn't know what she'd say to those outside--what she'd say to Quark, who will surely hate her once he finds out about this. She doesn't even know what to say to those still inside. But...she has no right to feel so sorry for herself when the unmarked are suffering so much more.
As the tablet finds its way up and down the cell block, Diana sits up near the forcefield, averting her eyes when anyone looks her way. But occasionally she speaks up, tentative and certainly heartbroken.] Um... if anyone wants me to look at their wounds... I-- I don't have fresh bandages, but I can help you clean up... And tell you what to expect...
[She can't leave her cell, of course, which does nothing for those who can't make their way over to her. She's practically useless, but this is all she can do. The least she can do, after what she did...]
B
He doesn't know who he's talking to, but he can move over to the edge of his cell closest to her. And he can offer his voice.]
Can you hear me? I understand.
A: Cw: general trauma and injury, allusions to domestic abuse