Event: Consolidation Theory, Part Four and Five

[snowblindmods]

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

Comments

cw gore, blood, violence, vomiting, chewing/cannibalism, amputation throughout the rest of threads

[holmesice]

[That was...an unfortunate night.

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?

[warriorscribe]

[Enoch is groggy, waking up and still utterly disoriented. He blinks at the new person. The person not wearing a jumpsuit. He vaguely remembers his voice.

Red-filled eyes stare up at him. Enoch starts pushing himself to his feet.] Were you...how did you get out? Your clothes...

[holmesice]

[Mycroft immediately takes two steps back, his breath hitching. Obviously not Sherlock, so irrelevant, but...he needed answers, as well.

He looks down at his clothes, in the worst state they've been in yet, with tears and holes from chewing--]

...yes, that does tend to happen when you lot fancy a snack.

I honestly don't know how I got out. [He rubs his neck where the metal collar was.] Clearly we were released.

[warriorscribe]

[The reaction causes a subtle unease to stir in the back of his mind, links to memories months old of another set of cells and the way people would draw back from him then.

The comment confuses him. His mind tries to wake through both normal grogginess and the fog of threatening memories.]

Released? You don't have...you're not marked. That might be why he let you out. But I don't understand what you mean.

cw ptsd/references to Noisy Black throughout the rest of this thread

[holmesice]

[Enoch's voice begins to bring back some very bad memories, even if it's him on the outside this time. His eyes widen and he takes another step back.]

They got you again, didn't they?

[He looks around frantically before focusing on Enoch again.]

It wasn't enough for you last time!?

You bloody fiends, was it you?! Did you eat my finger!?

[warriorscribe]

Again? Again? Did I- what?

[Enoch grunts as one of his legs protests the motion. It feels like someone got a good, solid kick in. When it sinks in, he'll want to thank that person. They might have spared themselves or someone else worse.

For now, his mind is somehow both racing and coming up with absolutely nothing, except the mounting fear that the gap in his memory holds nothing good.]

[holmesice]

Did you? Or was it someone else? One of your friends?!

[He spits the word 'friends' out like it's distasteful.]

I was nearly eaten alive in there. [His words come out low. A tremendous, confused, but mostly angry mix of emotion. As if he can't believe he's actually saying the words.]

[warriorscribe]

I don't- I don't know! I don't remember- I don't even remember falling asleep, or...

[He looks down at the bandages on his arms. There are scratches trailing into a layer over the middle of his palms. Defense wounds. Against him.

The whirling, clutching mess of his thoughts suddenly drops into something numb.]

...or fighting. I was alone in here, I've been alone in here...

[He says it, but knows it isn't true. Knows he's missing time, time that Mycroft has begun to fill in.

They got him again, indeed.]

[holmesice]

...if you don't remember, then how will we...ah.

It was you lot, it had to be, you just don't remember.

[He sounds quite put off by that. He wants to blame someone, of course.]

Your injuries. Did you awaken with them?

[warriorscribe]

[Enoch nods.]

I don't- I don't remember getting them, or them being dressed. I don't understand. I can recall traces of things hundreds of years ago, but not last night. Not even a feeling. Not even a sound or a texture...

[holmesice]

Damn it all. Completely unhelpful.

[Not your fault, Enoch, but you're very convenient to blame right now.]

Obviously that is by design, they're doing this to us on purpose. They don't want us to know...

cw derealization

[motherserpent]

Who's Sherlock?

[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

[holmesice]

Who's Sherlock? [He's seen her recent post, knows about her not remembering, but he has zero patience for it.]

Don't waste my time with inane questions like that--

[A pause. She's one of them.]

Was it you? My finger--was it you who ate it?!

cw's continue throughout

[motherserpent]

Jesus, fuck!

[Now there's a name she wouldn't normally invoke. Tess backs rapidly away from the barrier when Mr. English suddenly starts yelling about fingers, her gaze flicking to his -- holy fuck, he has a finger missing.]

Shit, no -- what --

[holmesice]

...I take it that you did not, then. [It's said dryly, but then again, she could just be in some measure of shock.]

[motherserpent]

Why the fuck would I want to bite off your finger?!

[holmesice]

Well, apparently someone here did! Clearly, it didn't just fall off by itself!

[motherserpent]

Well I don't fucking know what your finger does! Maybe you slammed it in a door or something, I don't fucking know!

[howdull]

[He's tired, more tired than he should be if he just slept the night before. It's obvious that he didn't, there's blood under his fingernails, but-- He doesn't remember anything, he hates things that mess with his mind this way.

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.]

[holmesice]

[...Mycroft freezes in front of his cell. He's overcome with a slew of blasted emotions that he really would rather not exist, but here we are. Relief. Concern, as to his brother's state. Fear--for them both.

And worst of all--fear, for himself.

The sight of red lines on Sherlock and what had happened last night is enough to send his heart plummeting.

What if?

No, he mustn't think that way, even if logically, he had just as much chance as anyone of being responsible.

Mycroft keeps his voice steady.]

...are you hurt?

[howdull]

Not severely.

[The teenage Mycroft at his side scoffs, eyebrow raised.]

How could you have believed he was me? Look at him, he's falling apart.

He has as much claim to the position as you, I've seen no evidence from either.

[holmesice]

[There's a slump to his shoulders, an aura of relief that's practically blasted off him.]

...well, that's...better than I expected, but are you in any--

[There's an inordinately long pause.]

What position? What are you talking about?

[howdull]

The position of the real Mycroft, of course.

[He rolls his eyes at the older Mycroft, while the younger one just looks impatient.]

Or perhaps you're both real, I have no reason to suspect otherwise.

[holmesice]

Both real?

[There's a sudden pang in his heart, when what's actually happening here sinks in.]

Oh, Sherlock.

[Not being able to do anything for him is far worse, he's hated this helpless feeling for so long, not being able to control the situation, much less help his brother. Maybe he could break him out of this illusion, at least. Though if he was being in any way objective and realistic, it was obvious that wouldn't be happening here, with whatever they had been doing to the lot of them.]

...I'm the real Mycroft.

[howdull]

That's what I just said.

[He tilts his head at the newcomer, rubbing a hand through messy and greasy curls absently.]

You may both be real, there's no particular reason that you couldn't be. There have been different versions recorded of other residents, why not two at the same time?