exsiliumlogs | open log » ❝ The VR Program ❞

Within the confines of the VR sits a prisoner. He's bested the challenges thrown at him already, he grimly awaits the next. Escape may be impossible, freedom is probably beyond his reach, but there's no surrender in his future.

His world is wide and dark, echoing— an antechamber? Wet stone and metal glisten in what little light there is, dark constructs loom at the edge of sight, and the sound of running water flits at the edge of hearing. There's no movement, no life, only the prisoner. This is the world between all others, this is the stolen glimpse when one reality darkens and another rises to take its place.

As you cross through this bleak place, his eyes lift. Wearied, somber, hard. You're no ghost to this scene; he sees you plain and clear.

You have only seconds to spend here, how will you use them?

The next breath he took filled his lungs with a chill. It made his shoulders shake, forcing his eyes back open. Instead of the blinding Exsilium sun, the sky was grayer, the sun farther away and colder. The world was bleaker.

Realization shook him harder than the chill did.

Home...

The crunching of footsteps was very sudden, though something nagging in the back of Martin Darkov’s mind convinced him the sound was always there. He was moving, too, after all. His heart was pounding into his ears, chest aching. He was nervous. All the training in the world wasn’t going to make him brave for this.

This? This is...?

“Don’t shake so,” she chuckled. “We’re not even halfway there.”

Martin’s head swiveled, looked up. Regina was smiling down at him, warm, encouraging...a little nervous, herself. Sad, even. She’d been looking sad ever since—

“Move to mark!” Bruce called from ahead. When Martin turned to look, the others were already starting to pick up pace. He felt Regina’s hand on her shoulder give a little squeeze, then a nudge, and she, too, rushed ahead.

His heart was practically in his throat, then, frightened and...and very confused. This whole dreadful thing...He could feel the cold sweat on his back. Why? This hadn’t even been the worst part. It hurt to breathe hard when he ran to catch up. This wasn’t what he dreamed of the most. This was before—

“I got six!”

“Eleven!”

“Twelve!”

No...

“Twelve, here!”

“Bruce — twelve!”

“Agreed?”

No, this...

“Alex, get to point!”

Martin’s body began to shake and shake, run turning to a stagger. He could feel the adrenaline, feel the sweat, feel the burn in his lungs and legs, hear the...them...

“Lamyin, twelve! They’re moving!”

He heard the squelching of wet flesh, the whistle of metal and bone in the air. His arms began to lock up tight — instinct. My mark...I...

Someone let out a loud whoop. Lamyin — the beasts — they began to crow and shriek to each other. Once he staggered up the gravelly slope, he could see them. He could see the others, too, right on mark.

It was so much like a dream; Martin moved just the way he remembered to. From his hand, the lance, aimed to the ground, launching him high up, sending him wildly to the ground, all but barreling into the slavering thing. But unlike the dream, if he sat back...

“Ahh!” He rolled away from gaping, skinless jaws — jaws reeking and oozing on its stolen, decaying form. There were loud whistles, things zipping past him, grazing his hair, his ears, and the muscles woven around the monster’s muzzle were lined with needles. All shattered to bits, as Martin swung his hand forward and let loose the lance.

His sister’s laughter rang out from a distance behind, desperate and giddy. A cousin’s answered, wild and overjoyed. Jackals.

Martin scrambled to his feet, pants soaked in thick, aged blood and muck. The stink was almost staggering, but he had little time to worry. He heard another call — “Nine!” — and swung around to spot the next hazard.

Regina was rushing forward, arm cocked and needles at the knuckles. He ducked to a knee, swinging his head around and looking for the target she was aiming and —

Saw nothing.

“Wh—” He looked ahead again, could hardly shout as she threw the next volley. His way. Laughing the jackal laugh.

It's hot. Shepard blinks, and she finds herself with her back against a low ledge, gun in hand. It takes her a moment, but she recognizes her surroundings. It's the Citadel, inside of the Council Chambers. Everything is on fire, and the station floors vibrate beneath her feet from the force of the battle outside. Battle? Sovereign.

She drags her eyes up and sees Saren Arterius staring back down at her from his platform. On either side of her, she can hear Kaidan's heavy breathing and Wrex's low chuckle. Both of them are crouching, facing the turian with their weapons drawn and aimed at him.

That's right.

She rolls and stands up from her hiding spot, gun dropping to her side. There's not one beat that she misses as she leans in. "It's not over yet. You can still redeem yourself!"

Saren shifts, only slightly. "Good-bye, Shepard. Thank you." His arms lifts, the muzzle of his weapon pointed just under the chin.

Despite knowing it's coming, Shepard jumps at the shot, watching the spray of dark blue blood as Saren stumbles and finally falls from the platform and crashes through the plate glass below him. She stands there a moment before her body takes its familiar path to the computer. Uploading Vigil's data into the Citadel is the next step, she remembers that.

What she doesn't remember is the faint hiss of someone drawing their weapon on her. "Shepard," Kaidan says as he fires and destroys the screen, the commander rolling out of the way just in time.

Bewilderment pounds on her as she takes cover behind a piece of debris. "Shit."

[ooc: this thing here will likely show up at some point :'3

also, if you'd rather do action instead of prose, I am a-okay with this too]

Edited 2012-08-06 00:41 (UTC)

It starts on an inhale.

There's a store, there's a street, there are people walking and talking and even if the city isn't in the best shape it's still a city. There are the sounds of footsteps, of someone's laugh a little down the way, and then -

- then, there aren't.

(Exhale.)

Even as the light filters in, it's muted, at once grayed all around and overbright where it breaks through the clouds. These clouds are dark and heavy with the the rain that's still falling - didn't you notice? your hands are getting wet and cold already - onto the ground, a ubiquitous sort of pattering that seems loud as soon as it becomes noticeable.

There's no more city, at least not visibly. Instead, there's an open-air stadium in greys and blues and greens, colors dark with water and scant light. Rising to one side is an enormous statue, dominating the view - a winged Lady Justice, all gilded, watching what is about to transpire.

(She'll be watching the show as much as anyone else.)

Barnaby walks out into the rain like he remembers, boots (boots?) making ripples in the puddles.

"Well!"

It's a familiar voice, feminine and blithely cheerful, belonging to a woman nearby. She isn't talking to him, of course, but to her animated stuffed toys recording everything.

"Thanks for waiting! A new challenger has appeared." She gestures to him before going on. "The fourth challenger in Jake's Seven Matches...the Revenge Boy looking for vengeance!"

He's not listening to her, not really, more distracted by the emptiness of the field before him because -

"Oh dear," she says in a theatrical faux concern. "What's going on? I don't see Jake anywhere..."

There's a laugh from up above that starts a chuckle and turns maniacal, and he looks up. The only other warning is the sound of fingers snapping before the barrage of attacks (flashes of light that are blinding as the explosives strike the ground around him), none of which connecting as he dodges until one does, throwing him back.

"Wow! He's staged a fabulous ambush...!"

Edited 2012-08-05 21:47 (UTC)

This is not the first time Katniss has relived this memory.

The ground opens up underneath her and she’s yelling at Gale to run as refugees fall into the hole, meet whatever it is that the Capitol kept under the feet of its citizens, die.

Katniss doesn’t die, though. No matter what she does in this place, she survives. She closes her eyes now, lets her body pull herself to safety as it has so many times before. She doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to relive this again, but it doesn’t seem like she has a choice.

She reaches safety, sees Gale hanging off a doorway. Lifts her gun even though she knows that rescuing him doesn’t mean safety, drills the lock until the door swings open.

The first time she did this, in real life, she felt elation. She’d saved him, they were going to be okay. Now she only watches with dead eyes as the white-gloved hands reach for her friend. He’s mouthing something at her and this time she knows what it is.

Shoot me.

And just like before, she can’t. She wants to tell herself that it’s because she knows he’s going to live, going to be okay, but that’s a lie.

She doesn’t want to be the one to kill Gale. Doesn’t want to bear the pain of that on her soul, on top of everything else.

Everything else…

There’s something else that she should be doing here, something even more important than Gale. Katniss frowns, trying to think, trying to remember.

And then the Peacekeepers release Gale. Katniss feels her mouth open, startled, not sure what words to use because this is new, she doesn’t remember this. Maybe everything will turn out okay this time? Maybe she can save everyone, even if this isn’t real, is only a dream.

And then Gale shoots at her across the gaping hole in the ground and Katniss laughs even as she avoids the shot on automatic, because she should have known better than to hope.

She knows it's a dream, because she's done with this part. She's left all of this behind and been glad for it. So if she's here again… well, it must be a dream, right?

The long and brightly colored feathered headpiece of the head priest used to fascinate Artika, but that was when she was young. She's seen it way too many times since then. Nowadays it just looks to her like the crest of one of the giant, slow-moving birds of the plains outside the jungle. She heaves a sigh and watches the crowd behind the priest instead, but they're not much relief. Everyone's wingtips are painted a bright garish blue — in honor of the blue patterns in her scales, she knows. It looks terrible on most of them. All of them, she amends, feeling vindictive. These ceremonies always make her feel petty and ill-tempered, but most of their wings are too colorful for their own good, the blue only clashes.

Artika shifts, clutching one talon against the raised wooden platform in a search for comfort. If she's going to be worshipped, she ought to ask them for pillows up here. But something catches her attention as she moves — a sharp clatter of stone on wood. Her head jerks up on its snaky neck to see where it had come from (something has landed near her, was it thrown?) and she freezes.

The faces in the crowd have changed. From distracted and rapturous to enraged. She stares in bewilderment as slender, small bodies begin scrambling toward her. Crawling over one another to reach her, even. Some of the younger ones, those still light enough to nearly fly, leap out over the crowd with their bright wings fluttering. It's like a messy flock of parrots, and she shifts nervously. What are they doing? This has never been a part of any of the ceremonies. She's never even dreamed of any ceremonies like this before.

But as a stone strikes her black flank, she decides that it doesn't matter. That hurt. Dream or no, she won't be standing for that. She snaps her head forward, jaws nipping at the arm of the first man that reaches her hard enough to draw blood, but it doesn't dissuade him at all. She knows him well, he lives not far from the village well, he says good morning to Artika sometimes. He's quiet, somewhat of a recluse. He seems to have forgotten all about that, though. He reaches out slender fingers that are curved like claws, while great red and orange wings at his back flap at the air to heft him up onto the platform with her.

That's when Artika darts off the back of it, starting up in a scrambling dash for the nook at the back of the hollow tree the ceremony is always held in. She's not sure what's going on, or why her people should have shifted from a quiet distaste of her to a killing rage, but she doesn't plan to stay and see more.

Marco first realized that something was wrong when he felt his stomach start to sink. Literally. In a few seconds he had been standing, next to his nice, cozy future-tv and bam! suddenly he was outside a neighborhood house that looked way, way too familiar.

Vice principle Chapman, familiar.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the morphing process seemed to have a mind of its own. He barely had time to let out the choked sound of surprise before the ground came up to meet him. His skin hardened, extra arms grew out of his chest and stomach, and he felt his eyes grow, encompassing most of his face as pincers grew from his teeth.

Ant! Marco barely had time to register the fact that he was, yet again, transforming into the one animal he had sworn never to morph again. He was turning into a damn ant. As human sight left to be replaced with the ant's near-blindness, he caught the familiar forms of Rachel, Jake, and Cassie as they too became ants.

Z-Space. It had to be freaking Z-spa-

Food. Smelled food. Had to find it, bring it back to the colony.

Immediately, the ant instincts began to take over. The smell of a dead beetle assaulted his antenna as they flickered.

We would touch the carcass. We would judge its size. If it was too big to carry, we would hack it into smaller pieces and carry the chunks to the colony.

Or enemies would come. We would kill.

On some level, Marco remembered being Marco. He remembered this happening before, how the ant instinct had taken over and drove him forward, overwhelming all aspects of identity. He remembered scurrying around in the grass, how the mission had been to grab the transponder from Chapman's basement. How something had gone wrong. He remembered the rival ant colony appearing.

We had reached the beetle. We opened our cutting mandibles wide and bit into the carcass.

Into the tunnels the ants went.

And, as Marco went to turn, other ants began pouring out of the side tunnels. Red ants. Enemy ants.

Instantly, they descended on the four black ants. Marco came to his senses as three of them dug their pincers into his midsection, tearing at his body and trying to rip him in half.

< AHHHHHH!!! >

[ ooc: characters that enter the memory can either be themselves, ant-sized, or transformed into...ants. With the ant-morph comes a very totalitarian mindset. The ants are loyal to their hive, one gigantic "self", and initially characters will have to fight the impulses to go borg, for lack of a better word. Ants also have next to no sight, relying on smell to guide them via their antenna ]

Edited 2012-08-05 23:11 (UTC)

[ It's late at night, the clock somewhere past midnight and the pizza boxes piled haphazardly on the table empty. Someone nearby laughs a little, and Roslyn stirs and opens her eyes, stretches sleepily and yawns. ]

I didn't mean to fall asleep, you should have woken me up.

[ Vaguely, somewhere deeper down, she realizes that this is a dream. Piri and Madison and Carl and Jin - they're all dead or gone or won't look at her in the hallways of headquarters - only she's not even in headquarters anymore, she lives in Exsilium these days, where there's none of them at all. So this has to be a dream, but there's still the echoing laughter of Madison with her head tipped back and that's enough for her.

Or one moment there is, and Roslyn is smiling sleepily and reaching for a folder, and the next moment Carl makes a low lunge for her, slamming her off her chair to the floor. She can feel where the bruises will form soon, the breath going out of her, and she stares up at him in bewilderment. ]

Carl? What's going --

[ She scrambles up off the floor and stares at her old team, bewildered and for the first time in a long time afraid as they line up uniformly, no familiarity in their faces. Just aggression. She's never had this nightmare before, and she doesn't want to start now. ]

He remembers this situation quite clearly, considering it's his last memory of home before having come here. The area's level ground for the most part, though going too far out causes it to turn really steep really quickly, which could easily lead to slipping off the edge and falling, almost like the edge of a cliff. However, the almost entirely dark setting surrounding the area was reminiscent of being in the depths of space, nowhere to go save for wandering the surface of wherever they are. It really wouldn't ~~or shouldn't~~ take too much observation to realize it's the top of a meteor, though air is very much present in the area, so no chance of suffocation there.

Right now, Eridan's stood upon the roof of said meteor with two other trolls either side of him, both heralds of luck and rage respectively, both trolls just like he is. Granted he isn't sure why he's back here, but the situation isn't exactly unwelcome. He'd gone into this confrontation before with the firm belief he could come out the victor, the only difference here being his weapon was even more powerful this time around. He could totally handle this. Unfortunately for Eridan, as much as he might want them to be, the two trolls standing to confront him aren't going to be his opponents. The dim setting of the meteor's rooftop is suddenly illuminated by the presence of another, silence broken by the arrival of a fourth troll behind Eridan, the source of the sudden illumination. She's unnaturally swift, going straight for the trio and kicking one of them straight off the meteor.

oh god

She once again moves to attack with her unnatural swiftness, getting up close to the only remaining troll of the original trio who isn't Eridan and punching her straight in the face, the force of which sends the target of her assault straight off her feet and sliding across the floor, yet after she slows to a stop on the ground, she shimmers out of view, leaving nothing behind of her presence. Were Eridan paying attention, he'd probably realize something was amiss there. Unfortunately, he's too busy freaking the fuck out to notice.

oh fuck

The next part of the memory was something so horrifying he'd probably never get the image out of his head. With only Eridan left, she'd turned her focus on him and snatched his wand straight out of his hand and broken it in two. At the time he was too terrified to do a single thing at that point, now defenseless and face to face with the walking undead. At that point he was pretty easy prey, so she just went ahead and finished him off, ending the standoff between the original three combatants. However, that wasn't the case this time. Instead of immediately going to disarm him, she remained still, drawing what appeared to be a tube of lipstick. It suddenly shifted into a much more deadly object however, a fully functioning chainsaw which she holds with one hand, low to the ground.

It takes him a while, but eventually he realizes he's still in one piece and not wandless.

So as opposed to dying, he instead decides to try and fight his way out this time. He grips his wand in hand, what appear to be white flames burning outwards from the object itself and flowing around him arm, before repeatedly telling himself in his mind he can do this and there's no way he's gonna die this time.

Truthfully, though, he's absolutely fucking terrified.

mild drug use in this first part...
He didn't remember where he was. The air throbbed with sounds and lights, hot, sweating bodies pressing together and grinding along with the pulsing drums. Smoke and alcohol, silks and leathers, sweat and perfumes, his senses were going on overload and he didn't care. There was a body under him, a wet mouth and hot tongue tangling with his, and sharp nails scraping across his scalp and down his neck. He jerked his head back, gulping at the humid air and slender fingers slipped between his lips, sliding something bitter onto his tongue.

Takegami glanced at the woman, lips parted and his tongue feeling numb. The numbness spread into a tingling sensation and he actually groaned as the man he pressed into the bench reached down and squeezed. The woman tugged on his hair hard as she leaned in for a kiss. He mentally shrugged, his body growing hyper aware of every little sensation. He could always kill them after the sex after all.

But something was wrong, the throbbing turning into a scream of guitars. He tasted blood and threw himself back from the hands. A moment, and they weren't what he had seen before, the people stopping and moving in like B-grade random villains. The couple he was with produced baseball bats from the air and hit him. Hard.

...then the lights blinked out
Takegami opened his eyes. The ceiling was industrial tiling set in aluminum tracks that no doubt covered an extensive ventilation system. In opposite corners sprinklers hung down well out of the way of the recording camera. There was also a standard one-way mirror opposite of him, the low blue tinted lighting in the room making it hard to see if anyone was there.

He doubted it. For one, they had left him in this room after running him through several check points. They took his fingerprints, they tried to get him to submit a DNA test, they searched him three times, and then finally he was shoved into this chair and told to wait for questioning. How typical.

Glancing at the officer in the room with him, he calculated how easy it would be to kill him before he could even use the baton on his belt. But if he did that, he would definitely be hung and without any way to wiggle out an revenge. Escape required some more thought.

Drumming his finger against the table, he planned. Of course, that was when the door was pushed open and the two detectives launched themselves at him.

Edited 2012-08-06 04:22 (UTC)

She's been in this place before, once in truth, and countless times after in her darkest nightmares. A lifetime ago she had stood in this place, the smell of sulfur and burning flesh staining her lungs, the sound of the wordless screams of countless throats tearing at her ears, the heat of the flames all around burning at her skin, and beyond it all was the cloak of utter and total hopelessness that fell over one the moment they stepped into this place, the fundamental knowledge that this was where all second chances ended, where all that awaited was endless agony and suffering at the hands of abominations no god had created. All about her the walls and floor pulsed and shuddered like the flesh of a massive rotted heart that refused to die, the room itself empty save for the multi-limbed statues at the center and along the walls, the unblinking eyes staring out from the walls, and those few souls who stood inside it. Here was where the weight of eternity could be known in all its vast and unimaginably terrible glory. A Hell worthy of the name.

Yet for Reya, the worst of it was not the place itself, it was the man standing in the center of the chamber she had entered, a man she had killed before over and over again, and yet who refused to cease haunting her life, to no longer steal from her everything she loved and needed, her friends, her family, her soul, not out of hatred or vengeance, but simply because to him she was nothing but a useful resource to be harvested until nothing was left and the husk could be cast aside. Even now the hatred that burned in the hollow eyes of Jon Irenicus was false, a shadow conjured up because some part of him felt it was the appropriate reaction to facing the one who had denied him his final life’s work. The monster had tortured her, murdered her friends, brutalized her sister, and he couldn’t even be bothered to show hate when she denied him his coveted godhood.

All around her she heard echoes of the past speaking, the comrades who had seen her through countless battles and losses all leading into the very pit of hell itself reaffirming one last time that they would stand by her, that their bonds would drive them to face even the likelihood of oblivion for Reya.

’No more platitudes, Irenicus. You have taken much from all of us. Now you die your final death!’

’This is the last stand, here in Hell. We fall, or we win.

’ I grow tired of shouting battle cries when fighting this mage. Boo will finish his eyeballs once and for all, so he does not rise again! Evil, meet my sword! SWORD, MEET EVIL!’

Yes, she could at least draw strength from those who surrounded her, from Mazzy the fearless Halfling warrior, Minsc the brave berserker from distant lands and his trusty hamster Boo, Keldorn the noble champion of justice, Jaheria who had become a source of guidance and care after her father’s passing, and her beloved sister Imoen who had never once let her be alone. They flanked her on either side, pillars of support that silenced the howl of her father within her and reminded her of who she truly was, that she was Reya of Candlekeep, that she fought for those who she loved, and that she was not simply some tool to be shaped by dead gods and mad sorcerers for their own ends.

Staring at the withered husk of an elf and his hoard of macabre demons, Reya felt her hand tighten around the worn wood of her staff, fear and rage gripped and shaped into power dancing across her fingertips, transforming the urges that sought to dominate her into a tool to end Irenicus’s evil once and for all.

“You couldn’t even kill me in reality,” she spoke, voice rising as she did, “You will not do so in a dream! I have had enough of living my life under the shadow of an empty shell too consumed with itself to realize when it is time to just die! This ends!”

[OOC: Comes with it’s own theme. Reya's companions will attack her just after this, possibly when another character enters]

Outside Sollux's hive window, hundreds of meteors fall. The city he was raised in is on fire, his bicyclops panicking and trying to detach itself from the chain keeping it on the roof.

Sollux wakes up, the familiar feeling of his room surrounding him. The bees are buzzing in an irritating manner, but before he has a chance to buzz angrily back at them, to tell them to shut up, he feels something heavy in his mouth. Thick, sweet...

Honey. Mindhoney. How did it even-

He tries to close his eyes, tries to stop the overload in his mind, putting his hands to his head- but it's too late. He's screaming and trying to make it stop, but it's too late, white-hot energy is pouring from his eyes. He can't stop himself from absolutely flipping his lid, blasting a hole out his roof, out the roof of the whole building, killing and destroying anyone and anything in it's path. His lusus dies instantly, and Sollux collapses to the ground. It's not until another ten minutes later that he wakes again, and the reign of the meteors has spread. It's nearing the ocean by this point.

Sollux manages to drag himself to the computer, and tries to catch up on everything he's missed. Everyone but himself and that fish princess are in the Medium, and she needs to get in before he does. Another ten minutes later, she's in, but that means that the giant horrorterror of a fish is also dead- and he has about five minutes to live. He's beginning to feel dizzy, as Karkat places down the pieces of SGRUB tech he needs to work with. Four minutes now.

The sky is alight with fire, the dying embers of a day of ruin in the great city of Denerim. The mass of enemies lying in wait seems insurmountable as it moves, destroying anything and anyone in its path. The Darkspawn are gnarled creatures, their armor covered in caked blood, their teeth protruding from their decayed lips. They hunger for the battle, mindlessly moving at the whim of the Archdemon, their master.

Gathered in the square are those who would oppose them, people from all walks of life engaged in battle. Human nobles and their armies gather in packs, slicing through the creatures. The Dalish, elvhen born and skilled in old magic, rain arrows down on their foes. The dwarves amass in great numbers, strong and able bodies making short and vicious work of the opponents they face.

Many perish, both innocents and soldiers alike. The houses are mutilated and scorched from the Archdemon and the torches of the Darkspawn. Denerim is to be made an example of, like Lothering before it. The horde wishes only to taint and ruin what it touches.

The three remaining Grey Wardens lead the charge, all of them decorated in armor and at the front. One stays to guard the gates on his own; one leaves to engage the Archdemon alone.

Elissa is left in the massacre of their armies, her blades slicing through any creature that dares oppose her. Her armor is nearly covered in their blood as she moves through the dozens of enemies, her feet carrying her through steps she's repeated long before. She's lost her helmet, her red hair framing her face as she runs towards the castle itself. The dragon shrieks loudly above her and she pauses. Heart hammering in her chest, she hopes that this time, Riordan can stop the dragon himself...

He slices through the Archdemon's wing and plummets to his death, just as before.

Eyes stinging from the fire, the blood, and what might be held-back tears, Elissa presses on. Her companions aren't far behind her and she stops to engage in another group of enemies, making short work of them. A stray blade slices into an exposed part of her arm and she shouts, decapitating the monster. Behind her, Wynne, Sten, and Zevran finally catch up.

She turns to them, brushing her hair back. "Secure the area. Wynne, I need this--"

The Kossith shouts a battle cry in his language and lunges for her, his blade nearly connecting with her midsection. She draws aside and parries, eyes wide. "Sten, what are you doing?!" she shouts. Zevran's smaller blades come at her back and she rolls away, throwing one of her few traps at him. "Stop this! What madness has possessed you?"

She gets no word in edgewise between the three of them bearing down on her, Wynne's magic keeping both of her former companions healed. Elissa grips her blades tightly in both hands, sends a prayer to the Maker, and then launches herself at her friends with the intent to draw blood.

The Darkspawn draw ever closer, and they will not be merciful when they eventually surround the Warden.

[OOC: Emma is from a comic book, which means her memory is available in convenient image format, featuring glorious Daniel Acuña art I've wrecked by shrinking it to less than half its intended size! 1, 2, 3, 4.]

Emma has lived this memory more than once, often enough that it's lost its sting, and she lets the betrayal play out unheeded as she searches her mind for the source of the flashback. Everything seems to be in perfect working order; it's not her own psyche doing this to her. Outside, when she extends her scan, she finds herself brought up by something unyielding.

Blocked. No one blocks her. Someone is going to pay for this.

Blast, if she can't wake up, she really ought to pay attention, because Shaw's about to--

"Selene?" he says, accepting Pierce's unecessary help and wiping at the blood Namor drew from corner of his mouth. Behind Emma, Selene raises a hand, and--

Not this time. The confused teenager of the memory has grown into the most dangerous telepath on the planet. Her blue eyes disappear behind the light as the telltale pink aura of Emma's power flares, and the other telepath drops to the floor with a strangled gasp, bleeding from her nose.

"Cow." Emma sniffs and smooths back already perfectly-arranged hair. "Namor, we need to--"

"Your time has come!" he interrupts, pointing at her, and Emma checks over her shoulder to make sure no one's sneaking up behind her.

"I beg your pardon?" It's not unusual for him to be yelling threatening but vague challenges--just not at her.

That's when Namor backhands her through the warehouse wall.

Emma comes up diamond, annoyed and shaking debris from her cape. "You're lucky you're imaginary, McKenzie."

"Prepare to die!"

"Do shut up."

[OOC: Want to fight? There's Pierce, who's a cyborg, Shaw, who absorbs kinetic energy, Namor, who's super-strong, super-tough, and super-shirtless, and a bunch of Sentinels. Relax, they're early-model and not very bright.]

Edited 2012-08-06 00:45 (UTC)

It’s been a long time since Kaidan has thought about this.

It’s probably a bad thing that he remembers it so vividly, almost two decades later. He’d told Shepard he was over it, and for the most part that’s true. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t niggle at him every now and then. The first person you kill has a tendency to stick with you.

It unfolds exactly the same way it did the first time. The students are training under the watchful eye of Vyrnnus, who’s staring at them all with an expression of open dislike slapped across turian features. Rahna gets tired early on, and Kaidan wishes he could lend her some of his strength. He’s always been able to go for longer than most of the other students.

But he can’t do that, can only watch as she swipes a hand across her forehead, and then reaches for a glass of water. Something in the back of Kaidan’s mind tells him to stop her, get it for her but the memory is in full force now and he can only let it happen. Vyrnnus’ eyes zero in on the girl and biotic blue slaps the glass out of her hand. It crashes to the ground as the ex-Commander storms over in the midst of Rahna’s fearful apologies.

“Hey!” Kaidan finds himself yelling. “Hey, leave her alone!”

He’s ignored. The turian grabbed Rahna by the arm, ignoring the girl’s cry of pain.

“If you’re not using it for biotics, you don’t use it at all,” he growls. The snap of her arm breaking splits the sudden silence of the room.

White hot rage sears through Kaidan and comes out blue before he can think about it. It’s not any definable power, just a wave of energy that slams into the turian, snapping—

Except it doesn’t snap his neck, this time. And when Kaidan turns to Rahna, it’s not fear that clouds her gaze, because nothing clouds it at all. Kaidan becomes abruptly aware of the fact that every person in the room is now staring at him.

“You’re going down, Alenko!”

Rahna is the first one to attack.

Edited 2012-08-06 00:55 (UTC)

[ You know what this place needs to feel more at home? A good press conference. Studies show if there’s one thing comic book fans love to see on film, it’s a good press conference. Hope you're not afraid of public speaking.

Then again, you're not really going to be doing a whole lot of it. There happen to be a few strategically placed podiums and what look like pews maybe but totally shouldn't be unless this is some sort of quote-unquote, 'random encounter', because who puts pews in front of the audience, but what the hell ever. You know what, on second thought, maybe considering the success of the first film’s scenes of press conferences and financial analysis programs, this is actually a Senate hearing. Who knows. Who cares. You're entering the memory long after any actual talking has taken place - although really, it's not as though any of them are really saying anything all that different than what they already would have anyway, right? It actually took him a little while to notice this wasn't how these memories actually went.

What's more annoying is how little there is to work with here. Having a more passive skill is annoying sometimes, and he's taken a couple of grazing wounds to the limbs trying to reach for something that he seriously isn't sure was there a few minutes ago. As it is he's managed to cobble together a few small grenades and manhandle-danced a gun from a legal-aide-slash-newspaper-intern-what-the-other-hell-ever-who-gives-a-shit. What's way more interesting is how oddly quick he's been able to see, catalogue, and put to use all the little things around him.

But hey, all in all, it's looking like a pretty stereotypical 'clear-the-room' type set-up - which of course just serves to make it more complicated, because nothing is ever that simple when it comes to Tony. Nothing. Ever. Who knows what's on the other side of that doorway across the room, but that's what you're going to find out, right? ]

Chloe opens her eyes, but it's almost useless. There's nothing but darkness. Well, that and the strong smell of decay and dirt in her nose and mouth. She wants to freeze up, but she's rolling over and that's when she sees it: the small sliver of light in the distance. The door to the basement. Her arms twists, and the ropes that had been binding her hands finally give way and start to slip.

I've done this before, she thinks as the girl finally works her hands free. Her breathing is too loud as she pushes herself up in the small crawlspace. The floor beneath her trembles, hard, and she braces herself from falling over.

Her first thought is that it's an earthquake, but that's not right. Earthquakes aren't a typical thing in Buffalo. She's summoned them, those spirits back into their bodies.

Chloe scrambles to untie her legs, cursing her powers, cursing Tori for throwing her into here. It's so dark and there's...

Crunch.

The girl pauses to listen. They're awake and digging themselves out of their sad, shallow graves, and she's still trapped in here. That's worse than anything. The darkness, the dead. She's not ready, and the gag muffles her yelps as her fingers hurry to undo the knots around her ankles.

She screams into the gag for them to stop, but they don't. They're supposed to. Chloe has power over them, as their master. Their necromancer. But she can still hear them crawling towards her, growling and clicking as the sounds of crawling continue.

They're not listening to her, and it makes her panic grow, fingers trembling too hard to even finish untying herself before she throws herself forward, towards the light, towards safety. Icy fingertips brush her arm, the grip tightening as she squeezes her eyes shut and tries to concentrate on sending them back.

Koltira didn't notice the change at first. He was in the forest, tracking a deer, focused on its swift, silent movements through the trees. When it paused to drink from a stream, he lifted a hand, readying for the strike. Birds fluttered in the branches above him, calling to one another, sharing a breakfast of worms. For a moment, he's distracted by their sharp cries; he glanced up, and when he looked back to the stream, the deer was gone.

The stream was gone, too.

Unthinkingly, Koltira drew his runeblade. He marched forward into the newly shifted forest, striding along a stone path that had appeared under his boots. A company of other death knights surrounded him, along with a battalion of monstrosities: slavering ghouls with their jaws open, their bloodstained tongues lolling out of their mouths; abominations dragging the shining, slick intestines from their open bellies over the grass, leaving a slimy, pale green trail in their wake; crypt fiends hissing and clacking in their harsh, arachnid language, planning the attack.

Koltira was in the Ghostlands before it had earned that name, just before, when it was still a part of Quel'thalas. Before the Scourge and their devastation came, their plague that seeped into the earth and mixed inextricably with the roots of every tree, the seeds of every flower, infecting the wind itself with rot. Except the Scourge were coming now, and he, Koltira Deathweaver, was still one of them. Their war procession stormed into Goldenmist Village, a small settlement of high elves that had only flimsy protection against the assault. The abominations cut down the defenders with ease, throwing their rusty, hooked chains and burbling with glee as they impaled warrior after warrior, dragging them down, shattering their armor, spilling their bowels across the stones. The ghouls leaped to feed on the remains, scooping up viscera greedily, using it to feed their strength. Koltira stepped past this and pressed into the village; the Lich King's voice had never been so loud and eager in his head, barking orders, demanding death. The pull of his maker's will dominated every part of Koltira. His own desires were subsumed, locked in a chest at the bottom of his subconscious, wrapped in strangling, iron vines.

There was a family inside this house. A child, her face soft, unformed, plump with youth, her blue eyes wide and wet with terror. A father, holding his daughter close, shielding her with his body. As though that would help. As though that would stop anything.

Koltira kicked the father square in the middle of his back, sending the man sprawling onto the floor. His daughter shrieked, howling for him, bawling his name. Without a word, without a single thought, Koltira grabbed the girl's arm and drove his runeblade into her chest. She crumpled against him, lifeless, but not for long.

"No--Coria--Coria ... she was hardly past her tenth year!" the father wailed. Koltira sneered at him, pushing the girl towards him. Thinking he had been granted a small mercy, the father scrambled forward and caught his daughter in his arms. He wept against her hair, now matted with blood.

The Lich King crowed with delight, and Koltira felt drunk with pleasure, a sensation alien to his current state. Alien enough that it broke him of this illusion. Sickness replaced the Lich King's demented joy, and Koltira, himself again in this wretched memory, tried to speak to the father, to tell him to run--but it was too late.

The girl began to move. Her body decayed rapidly as she sat up in her father's arms; her teeth became long and jagged, her flesh fell away like strips of old cloth, revealing the bone underneath. Her eyes sank into their sockets, and her nails were hungry claws. She was upon her father before he could even react.

The blood spattered the bookshelf, the windows, and the table, set with apples and fish. Koltira's mind was a screaming wreck.

He turned away from the scene, and then, his comrades came for him.

Edited 2012-08-06 01:28 (UTC)

The setting: a slightly decrepit castle, full-up with crumbling walls and cool drafts and every other uncomfortable romance. The scene: a rag-tag rebel army rehearses Romeo and Juliet. The players: Ayame, broody mysterious ninja, silent type. Bright, giant silver dragon. And Nash "Definitely My Real Name" Clovis, grateful for small mercies and the fact that this time he didn't have to play a sheep.

It wasn't hard to convince himself this was a dream— Nadir's true-life productions tended to play out like his nightmares. Nash didn't mind theatrics (quite the opposite, if he were honest, a virtue he was rarely inclined toward) but they always seemed to cast the exactly wrong person. Sometimes not even a person. Why was an real, swear-by-the-Circle dragon costumed as Juliet's nurse?

So it wasn't a surprise when the ninja formerly known as Juliet attacked him, even as she yelled "Surprise attack!" It was only when he found his body moving reflexively to defend himself that he realized this went deeper than dreaming.

At least, his mind repeated, he hadn't been cast as a sheep.

Hello darkness, my old friend.

Collette blinked her eyes, turning her head to get her bearings after the sudden blackout. The dark was slow to fade, resolving into the muted light from around the outside of a children's hospital in California late at night. She was perched on a lower roof, still two stories above the ground, surrounded by three other pigeons, two ospreys, and one peregrine falcon.

She remembered this. Fluttering wings as the first four Auxiliaries tasted flight for the first time. She remembered when Marco said something gross, like -- what had it been? -- < You know, if we were real birds of prey, one of us might try to eat one of you. > Gross and funny all at once, because it was inappropriate, and it was true. She almost expected it would be what she next heard, as she was preparing to lift off into the sky.

So it wasn't much of a surprise when she recognized his voice in thought-speak. Except what he said didn't make any sense. She heard one word before she felt talons rake at her tail feathers with a rush of wind across her back. < Die! >

< What?! Marco! This is so not the way this is supposed to go! > Flapping her wings madly, Collette dove to the side. Just what the heck was going on? < Trust me, this is not how anyone picks up chicks! >

That said, she banked and brought herself up for a fast rise even as another pigeon flapped up to her, calling out with a similar refrain. < Take that! >

< Kelly? >

Yeah, okay, this went beyond way weird straight into impossible territory. But all things considered, so had the rest of her life. If she was having nightmares about Kelly and Marco and James and everyone else taking her down as a bird, she'd just have to -- have to outfly the lot of them.

Or take them down first.

... She'd try outmaneuvering first.

[ ooc: Bird fight! On the second floor roof of a hospital at night in California. Be part of the flock, be your usual charming self, wonder why the birds are angry and not coasting on hills on your smartphone, or try to leave through the hospital and get attacked by the staff. Or feed a late night pigeon in some down time?

Warning: Marco, Cassie, and Jake all have access to their full recalled range of morphs according to Collette. It's highly likely they will change morphs to whatever form will work best as a challenge to people entering in dream. Noting their preferred battle morphs are as follows: Tiger for Jake, Wolf for Cassie, and Silverback Gorilla for Marco. ]

The first thing Snow notices is that she’s not actually trapped in the ice anymore.

Oh sure, she’s under it. But the constraints that had held her soul there back when this had actually happened are gone now, and it’s that which leads Snow to belief that this is real in some way. When she dreams about this, she always stays trapped.

Still, that doesn’t actually help explain what’s going on at all. So Snow stays put for the time being, watching the situation unfold.

“Pixie dung. I really was ugly,” she mutters to herself. Above her, past the ice, is her body possessed by the demon. She was pale before, but now her skin is the colour of paper, the colour drained from her lips. And then there’s her eye, scarred and sallow. “Why is there no such thing as a pretty possession?”

She might have been content to keep watching, but then she registers that there are other voices talking, a whole conversation happening above the ice, and there are only three people those voices can belong to.

Despite herself, despite the fact that she should know better, a wild hope seizes Snow. If part of this is real somehow, if she can actually step through the ice, maybe she can change it. Maybe she won’t have to die. She pushes through the ice, to freedom, and thinks that even if she does die, at least she’ll be able to do it as a person this time. Maybe she can even give Talia a last (first) kiss to hold onto before she goes.

Because Talia is there now, arguing with the demon alongside Danielle, and it’s been so long since she’s seen either of them that she just wants to run to them both and throw her arms around them. But there’s something to take care of first.

“All right, let’s do this!” She reaches for her snowflake throwing starts, only to find herself stopped by Talia’s hand gripping her wrist. Eyes wide, Snow stares at the other woman. “Talia?”

Her face is blank. “Die, now!” she yells into Snow’s face, and that’s all the warning she gets before the knife comes at her.

As far as dreams go, this is the more preferable alternative to the long nights of the Hunger Games and the equally long nights with his lovers. Annie's hand is warm, soft, and Finnick squeezes it gently in his own. The whole of District 13 is here, some of the people most important to him, but right now...

Right now, they don't even matter. She's beautiful, and this is his favorite memory of his wife. Her green eyes light up at him as she smiles; it's not a timid look, not like the one she wears around other people. This is the real Annie, the one he remembers from before her Games, the one who she is around himself. He needs her, he realizes, grinning back at her as he raises her hand to lips, kissing her knuckles. The dress had looked good on Katniss, but on Annie... Well, the younger woman could have been wearing seaweed and looked good, in his opinion.

Around them, people laugh and shout and whistle. Two lovebirds, finally getting married.

He tugs his beautiful, mad girl closer to himself, leans in for the kiss. Everything is suddenly quiet, silent enough to hear the slap resound against his face as he stumbles back. Annie's eyes are still lit up, but not with love and joy. It's hate and madness.

An arrow from Katniss's bow whizzes by him, nicking his ear as he throws himself to the ground just in time.

[ooc: this is a wedding, and as such there are a lot of people here... most of them are trained soldiers :'D also if anyone tries to attack Annie, Finnick will probably attack them, because he's kind of dumb]

This is something Bethany relives nearly every night when she enters the Fade to dream. In the three years since her Joining, the nightmares have only become worse, felt more real. But it all that time, it hasn't become any less painful for her. Watching your home burn, seeing your twin die – it's experiences like that that stay with you for life.

Thump, thump, thump. The ground quakes with each step the ogre takes, sending everyone scurrying when it approaches. It lifts its head to the sky and growls murderously before descending on Carver and their mother.

"You soulless bastards," Carver hisses, and without so much as a second thought – or even a first, Bethany thinks – he lifts his sword and charges.

Even knowing what's coming, Bethany can't do a thing to stop him. She's frozen with fear, the same as she was four years ago, and she can't so much as blast him onto his stupid ass. The ogre effortlessly plucks him up into the air and slams him back into the ground, once, twice, before tossing him aside like a discarded toy.

She'll never forget that moment for as long as she lives. How could she?

What comes next, though, is completely new to her. Bruised and bloody, Carver rises, lifting his sword once more, and stalks toward her.

"Get her!"

One by one, the others – Mother, Garrett, Aveline, Wesley, along with the ogre and the rest of the darkspawn – follow. It's only when her brothers swipe at her with their blades that Bethany finds that she can move again, and with a scream she slams her staff into the ground, releasing a shockwave that sends the lot of them flying. Then, she runs.

((OOC: Your enemies today are the darkspawn, enjoy. :'D Also feel free to tag with action brackets if you so desire!))

Edited 2012-08-06 01:59 (UTC)

Bariyan notices something wrong the moment when dark tunnels suddenly dissolve into bright sunlight, green hills -- the moment someone kicks him down to his knees and claps chains around his wrists. He tastes (tastes) blood in his mouth as he bites down in surprise, but then something stabilizes and his mouth is dry again. He finds himself staring at the back of his hands, scarred, grey, dead. That much hasn't changed, at least. Then--

Bariyan looks up and is hit full in the face by a memory eight hundred years dead. It shocks him into silence.

He watches his son die again with only a hollow sense of despair. The blade slices deep into Komini's throat, it leaves the front of Ko's shirt dark with blood, it leaves the memory fresh in Bariyan's mind. But the loss is still old in Bariyan's heart, long since internalized, long since accepted. He understands, already, that he is just going through the motions. For whatever reason his psyche has seen fit to make him relive the first of his great failures again and he accepts that without question.

This is merely a showing. This is not a second chance.

So when he sees the mercenaries -- because that's all they are, right now, all they were to him, nameless and nearly faceless -- his eyes slip right off them again. He knows what they are doing, already. He pays attentions to the rest of the company instead: there's soldiers, forty or fifty of them, cresting the hill and coming in from all sides. He'd never had the chance to count, before.

Bariyan breathes; in, out, in again. He forces himself to look at the mercenaries again. His so-called friends and allies.

There's Cat, breaking the chains off Bariyan's wrists. There's the captain, serenely stepping out to place himself square between Bariyan and the man who'd just killed Bariyan's son; Tameir joins him soon after, her hands raised and the beginnings of a spell already forming at her fingertips. Anjachi is somewhere behind all of them, notching an arrow.

And there's Cat, again, standing above Bariyan. Wearing the empty smile that had taken him years to perfect. Bariyan looks up at him and wonders upon the moment, the first time they'd met. He doesn't remember what he'd thought back then. He doesn't want to think now. So he only watches as Catsovi draws his sword. Watches him swing it down hard at Bariyan's neck.

Bariyan only frowns.

Strange. That wasn't supposed to happen for a few more years, at least.

[ ooc: will match tagging style!
also, the condensed version ]

Edited 2012-08-06 02:14 (UTC)

It had been one of the few times where Cailan was the one leading her. She remembered it like it was yesterday, and here it was, playing out as though she were a young girl again despite catching her reflection in a mirror and seeing that she was not young at all.

But Cailan didn't notice. He was twelve, at that age where he had begun to discover girls, and he held her hand in such a firm grasp that Anora had no other choice but to follow him down towards the cellars. His blonde hair was tied back in a braid that she remembered braiding ("You always were so good with hair, Anora."), and he was youthful and full of life. She didn't question what was going on, she didn't question why she was back at Denerim, back in the palace, and why her deceased husband was alive and well and younger than ever.

They stopped at the door of the cellar, Cailan feeling in his pockets for a key he nicked from his father. It took him a bit, patting at his trousers, claiming that he "really honestly had the key I swear", and with a rare soft smile Anora knelt down and reached behind his ear to pluck the key out from behind his ear. There was an embarrassed laugh on Cailan's part as he took the key from her fingers and gave her a devilish smile as he turned to unlock the door.

The cellar was exactly as she remembered, lined with bottles of assorted wines from anywhere imaginable. The air was cool and somewhat musty with dust, and Cailan lit a candle before closing the door behind them. Anora sat herself down as he went for a bottle of what he assured her was Antivan wine, and he took a seat next to her as they passed the bottle back and forth.

It wasn't real, she knew it wasn't real, yet it felt real and in her memories she remembered getting tipsy so in turn she felt as tipsy as she had once been. They joked and laughed and Anora allowed herself to get caught up in the memory as they finished off the bottle. He had jumped up, swaying a bit, and he took her hand and sloppily pressed his lips against it.

"Another glass for m'lady." but instead of turning around to get her another bottle, he had leaned in to give her a kiss on the lips and sit himself on top of her, and as the memory played out as it had always played out, Anora pushed him away out of reaction and he tumbled back into the shelves. She stood up as the bottles started tumbling and crashing around him, and she grabbed him to pull him out of the way as one nearly fell on top of his head. The momentum caused her to sway back and crash into another rack, and as they lay splayed out on the floor the bottles fell crashing around them, soaking their clothes.

There was the sound of light feet descending down the stairs and the door swung open to reveal a small elf with graying hair and a sharp face, and following that was the sound of heavier feet clomping down the stairs and there was the large figure of Loghain looming over the slight elfish maid.

"What in Andraste's name is going on down here?" his voice echoed throughout the cellar and in memory Anora had flinched, but now she remained staring. This was the father she remembered, the fearsome war hero with a steady commanding gaze.

"We were..." Cailan started, fumbling to get himself off Anora.

"...fighting ogres, father." she felt herself finishing, and Cailan continued with the idea.

"A whole army of them. Just came crashing through."

"They must have heard you coming and were frightened away." The successfully untangled themselves and they stood, Cailan's face as serious as ever (well, he was attempting to hold his composure at least).

Anora frowned, looking over her father's features. He had fewer wrinkles, he was younger, he looked as sane and as clear-thinking as he ever had been. There was a flicker of amusement before he hardened his expression and opened his mouth to say something in response as the elf began to fuss over what few bottles had remained, picking up shards of glass as she entered.

But what Loghain had to say was lost, for there was a hesitation and the scene felt as though it stood still for a brief moment, and the young Cailan came behind Anora, grabbing at her arms and locking them behind her, suddenly stronger than his twelve-year-old body let on.

Anora struggled in Cailan's grip, and she looked on as her father and the elf suddenly held themselves in a battle stance. Loghain reached for the sword resting in its hilt at his hip.

"Father, what are you--"

"You're no match for me!"

Edited 2012-08-06 02:44 (UTC)

THE PRISONER

MONSTER FIGHTING IN OLVOSKI

Fight in the Citadel

Fight with Jake