exsiliumlogs | monsters and the kids who become them and the people who fight them

monsters and the kids who become them and the people who fight them

Date & Time: 9/2 – 9/12, various times
Location: All throughout the city
Characters: See tags
Summary: A lot of people have to put up with an increasingly unstable kid
Warnings: Fightytimes violence, body horror, dead things

IN THE FAR-REACHING FUTURE OF AN ALT-EARTH, MONSTER-BASED ATTACKS ARE CONSIDERED ESPECIALLY RIDICULOUS. IN EXSILIUM, THE DEDICATED TRANSPORTS WHO ENDURE AND INVESTIGATE THESE VICIOUS HAPPENINGS ARE MEMBERS OF AN ELITE SQUAD KNOWN AS EXTRA-UNLUCKY BASTARDS.

THESE ARE THEIR STORIES.

The following threads coincide with the established timeline posted here and are arranged chronologically for participants' use if need/want be.

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[another grunt, stopped up by a wheeze. whumph.

hh. there...but–what? his voice is distracted, sharp:] Goh–! Jus–! [a hissing sound. man. this was...supposed to be safe it was...it's...not why did he even think–]

[Okay the noises coming from inside the room are, frankly, disturbing.

There's another knock, this time it's with more of a purpose, and her hand is at the door handle again, this time turning it.]

Martin, open the door.

[after a few loud and heavy huffs, the room behind the door was quiet. Martin, curled up on the floor with his forehead pressed hard against his knees, gritted his jagged new teeth so tight he could feel them slicing into the gums above and below.

talking? just sounds. his ears are full of a drumming sound. heart rhythms. his? or...someone's.

he cracks an eye open and twists his head just enough to peer at the door with it. the annoying shred of light from the base of the thing. go away.]

[He's not responding, and this both worries Anora and agitates her.

The door's somewhat difficult to push open, what, with the chair lying right in front of it and all, but she braces her shoulder and it opens just enough for her to look in.

Maker it's dark in his room. She squints, making out a shape of a figure curled up on the floor. She sounds exasperated.]

Honestly Martin...are you ill? Or is this another of your tantrums?

Ghh–! [he tenses, like a deer frozen in the light. and something...he doesn't know what, but–] Ghovoy– [he uncurled, arm reaching out, launching the lance without a thought. the horror came the second after, letting out a cry.]

[She's not expecting the attack, and it's a second too late before she registers the incoming lance.

It embeds itself in her right shoulder, and her legs crumple up under her as a searing pain clouds whatever train of thought she might have had.

She had never been injured before...truly injured. She was not a warrior, she was not a fighter or a rogue where a shot through the shoulder was something she frequently encountered. She felt faint.

She's hunched over, managing to look up at Martin. But no, that didn't look like him. Something was off, something was different, but she couldn't tell because the pain and blood seeping through her clothes was making her foggy and distant.]

I don't--

[it's dust not a second too late, damage already dealt. Martin's outcry is choked – not enough breath to see it all through. throat tight. no, I...

his arm retracts, hand curling against his stomach, and, glancing down, it's like seeing it for the first time. it's horrible and twisted and...not his but...his anyway and he just...

his eyes trail back toward Anora, fixating on the growing blemish at her shoulder, slack-jawed and horrified. the smell is...]

[And the weapon is gone just like that, and she presses her left hand against her shoulder as her right arm is useless due to pain, unsure of what to do.

She looks over at the figure, and his expression...his teeth...

oh Maker.]

Alistair...Alistair I need a--

[--sword. A shield. A weapon. A healer...anything. Her voice is shrill, and it seems to echo when she realizes it's just her and this figure lingering in Martin's room.

She clambers to get up, her bloodied left hand reaching for the handle of the door to help her up. It's fear that grips her, not the pain, but she manages to stand upright and stagger backwards out of the doorway, pressing her back against the wall of the flat's hallway.]

[he recoils, wincing as he watches unblinking at her moves. I didn't...I didn't mean to–I...

Why–?

croaked:] Nho, n'I...An–[stifled again, listening in silent horror at the sounds of Anora's struggles. he brings his hands to his ears and quickly away again, yelping at the shocking burn. looking up again, seeing– Look at what you did.

somehow on his feet, he wavers, hands tucked tight under his arms and clutching his clothes.] I'll...I...I'll...get. Get...[get help. yes.

yes. do that. fix it. fix it, he thinks, taking halting steps toward the door, more and more afraid as he gets closer, sees detail.]

[At his approach, she instinctively shirks along the wall, dripping blood across the floor as she does so.

Her eyes are at his mouth, at his teeth, and her face is paling. If she could make it to the kitchen...

She's grabbing for something to throw at him, but her hand only feels a bare wall and her fingers sticking against it. Her knees are starting to give way once again.]

Get...away.

[he freezes, stomach dropping. his shoulders hunch up to fight against the need to stretch his arms out, to help plead–] N-no, I...I, hh– [his voice squeaks and cracks, face scrunching up. it'd be sad if it wasn't actually very ugly and awful.

he eyes the frame of the door, feeling his skin prickling with panic. squeezing his eyes shut, he edges toward it, trying to not feel the gaze on him or the shortened breath or...or the drumming, drumming heart and pumping blood so very close and–] I'mh not! [he bolts by, down the hall and toward the exit, tripping over a corner of rug (or carpet; futuristic housing whatever man). in a panic, he scrambles, clawing for the door and pulling–

er, ripping the thing enough to bend it at the handle and leave it useless for locking or...closing, really...as he scrambles and squirms out. had to get help. get help...get...

get away. just – just away.]

[Alistair had been -- out for groceries. His own list and a modest one from Anora, the bags are dropped to the side carelessly once he sees the state of the door.

He's been in enough combat situations to know that something about this isn't right, the way it's ripped off the flame -- he pushes himself hurriedly into the entrance, sword drawn from its sheath. He kicks the door open with one foot and then heads quickly inside.

It's the blood that he sees first, almost theatric streaks against the wall. Anora looks so ... small.]

Anora!

[Is she even conscious...?]

[ Bariyan had dropped by the room several times before, already, always when no one else was home -- or when Martin wasn't answering. So his visits had tailed off. But he is getting desperate, now, and he supposes he ought to give it another shot. He is not expecting anything different this time around.

He throws his expectations out when he approaches and sees the door already open.

He half-steps into the door, holding onto the frame, staring at the scene before him. Alistair, sword drawn. Anora....

The hole in her shoulder. Bariyan had seen a similar injury, just weeks ago. Oh, gods, oh no.... ]

Is he still here?

[ Bariyan strides in, uninvited, sweeping past to check the rest of the apartment. ]

[Alistair has exactly no idea who Bariyan is, or who he's referring to when he barges into the house.

In fact, he swings around with his sword at the ready until he can confirm the man isn't holding a lance or any other offensive object. Once he's sure, he drops the weapon in favour of leaning in to listen for breathing on Anora's end.]

What?

[ The rest of the apartment proves empty. He comes back to Anora and Alistair, standing over them, looking wretched. His eyes flickering over the trail of blood. He doesn't think to introduce himself; seems like a bad time to do so. There is too much to deal with, at hand. ]

Martin. I think.... [ He looks at Anora's wound again. Lethargy comes over Bariyan, suddenly, and he finds himself frozen, unable to decide on what to do next.

But the longer they stand here, the more Anora bleeds.

Bariyan snaps out of it. ]

We need to get her to the clinic. [ Bariyan strides off again, this time to search the apartment for something else. ] Bandages-- do you have any?

[...Martin. Well, that would explain the teeth. He'd have been right in asking him about them if he'd been able to track him down, not that he was sure Martin would've been truthful about it.

He scowls, his hands pressed against the wound on Anora's shoulder.]

In the bag by the door.

[It's filled with a multitude of things, actually -- hard rations, bandages, a bedroll. It's just -- habit to have that hanging around in case they needed to leave quickly, all right?]

The transport-run clinic only. I can carry her there.

[ Bariyan retreats back to the door, finding the bag and going through its contents until he finds the bandages. ]

Here. Can you stop the bleeding? [ He tosses the roll over to Alistair. ] Then we'll go. The clinic's closer, anyway.

[Alistair works efficiently enough with the bandages that it's obvious that he is indeed capable of stopping the bleeding.]

We shouldn't be wasting this time. Just -- get the door out of the way.

[And in a display of templar-like strength that doesn't really match with his crappy striped shirt, he picks up Anora as carefully as he can manage to.]

Right.

[ Bariyan might have the strength to wrench the door out of its frame, but he didn't bother trying. Only more time wasted. Instead he brushes fingers over the hinges -- sets metal to rust, wood to rot -- then kicks it back open once the support has been weakened enough. The door, twisted and warped, falls out.

He leaves the apartment first, to leave the path clear for Alistair. ]

[Fortunately, Alistair's a little distracted with the door to notice the way that the man just disintegrated his door.

They're totally going to need a new one.

He heads out at a brisk pace, fully intent on staying with Anora once they reach the clinic even if people will probably make a fuss.

He nods to Bariyan.]

You have my thanks. Are you -- going to try to find him?

[Martin.]

Yes. I have to.

[ Unburdened, Bariyan leads the way down the stairs and out, pulling doors open for Alistair to pass through as they go. But he turns away as soon as they exit the building. ]

You know where the clinic is, yes? I... I need to find Martin, as soon as possible. [ He looks at Anora, and shakes his head. ] Before more of this happens.

[He understands the priority, but he turns to Bariyan.]

Find him before someone else does. I don't think they'll be as kind as you might be.

[Or maybe this man is really going to brutally murder Martin -- it isn't as if they'd talked about it, but he seems a little less angry and a little more concerned.]

I know. I'm sure they won't. [ Bariyan bows his head. ] Thank you.

[ And though it seems unnecessary, judging by Alistair's concern: ] Take care of Anora. And-- I'm sorry. [ He turns to leave, hands clenched into fists, mind racing.

He'd known. He should have said something. He should have contacted Anora before this. He should have done so much. ]

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monsters and the kids who become them and the people who fight them

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