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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It was not simply the external that was warped in Martin's transition. It all began on the inside, after all – and apparently it took quite the killer metabolism to make a monster out of a boy (It's not my blood.). The aftertaste lingered for hour or...or minutes. He wasn't sure how much time passed from this moment to that; he'd blink and be miles away.

It's not my blood, he kept thinking, unable to get the smell out of his nose or the taste from his tongue. It soaked his sleeves and stained, dry for...however long it was. Not my...

Somewhere dark was fine. He didn't hear anything. He'd just dropped where he stopped and lay there, pushing everything out of mind. Pretend it was alright, just for a moment.

Or a few hours. The night was still very early, after all, and that alley wasn't going to be vacant for much longer.

He spotted the movement but it took him minutes to decide whether or not it looked like Martin from up here, whether or not he ought to leave to investigate. Only when he saw the figure drop was he spurred to move -- that was not normal behavior.

The descent was easier than the ascent, but finding the alley from ground-level was troublesome. When he did find the street, he arrived in a fit of frustration -- then spotted Martin huddled in the shadows, and realized that he hadn't a clue how to approach. Neither of his previous attempts had done him much good.

So this time he moved in quickly, long strides, without hesitation. Saying nothing. But the knit of his brow, the grind of his teeth, they all spoke of the despair that was beginning to grip him.

Bending his arms was sharp and painful. Keeping them unbent made them throb and stiffen. There was no happy medium at all, though Martin tried, sluggishly, shifting in the place he'd fallen for some semblance of comfort. At least enough to let him sleep. Thick in his ears were no sounds of his own, but they ought to have been, for how close it was.

His eye rolled and found the shape outlined from the rest of the blacks and grays in the alley. He stared, not understanding, feeling very far away from it all. His jaw clenched and unclenched, causing teeth unevenly grown to scrape against each other. Open or closed, didn't matter, still hurt.

What now...?

"Martin." He only spoke after he made it all the way over to where Martin lay.

It was Martin, as strange and warped as he'd become. Still Martin, always. No matter what anyone else was calling him. But it hurt to see him like this. It hurt more than seeing or hearing about the victims, about the damage, about anything else. Bariyan was now too tired to deny that much.

He crouched down and reached out to touch the boy's shoulder, the spell for sleeping already at his fingertips.

Bariyan was dead: There was no heartbeat or scent of blood to rouse Martin's overtaxed and shifting senses. Really, he was just a hazy shape in his vision up until that stirring of power. In that, there was danger, and in danger, Martin's body knew to move.

His arm moved to swiftly smack Bariyan's away, sitting upright with eyes wide and mouth snarling. Words found less and less means of making it through his throat, save in the shape of awful, garbled sounds, and that was all the offense he could vocalize now.

Bariyan was no longer surprised by the violent reaction. He expected it, and he let Martin swipe him away, but tried to grab on to that arm before Martin could pull back again.

"Please, Martin." Quiet, desperate. But he braced his other hand against the ground and tensed, preparing to move if Martin escaped him again.

It was all a threat in his mind, so more was the panic and struggle to be rid of him. For what effort was behind reaching for him, Martin's effort in scrambling free was double. Getting away from grasping fingers was most important, and against those he struggled the fiercest, feet finding a place to brace by way of the looming shape's chest.

He heaved, trying to pry enough space for himself to scramble through and claw away – or up if need be.

He managed to catch on to a ragged sleeve for just a brief moment -- barely an inch of it in his grasp, not enough to keep him here. Only enough to plead:

"Don't run from me."

But Martin pried himself away, broke free, going up and over Bariyan's arm and away. As much as Bariyan had wanted it to, it was obvious that this would not end here. So he scrambled to his feet.

Not this time, he thought. He rolled a shoulder, and braced himself for Martin's next move.

Whatever it was, it was a dangerous thing. No pulse, no blood. Just that ominous energy causing his skin to prickle and veins to throb. And the voice...nagged. It gave him disturbing thoughts and hesitations – things that would get him killed. I don't want to die (I deserve it).

He shuffled backward, on his feet and flung his arm over, clutching his wrist to keep it in place as he fired. GET AWAY FROM ME.

Bariyan stood his ground.

The lance went through his midsection, threw him back, impaled him -- forcing him to stagger back, and more as he grabbed it and pushed, wrenching it out before Martin could dissolve it. He dropped it to the side and straightened up, finding a new balance.

"What, Martin?" Bariyan asked, ignoring his own gore. His focus was entirely on the child. He held his hands out, palms upwards. "You should know better than this...."

He stepped forwards.

No!

The lance hadn't fully escaped his body before it was caught, causing a panicked mess of grunts and whimpers as it clanked to the ground, freed from its target. Martin reeled, breathless in his panic, and brought his arm back up again. The remainder of the lance, blunt and broken, fired out as he cried.

That bit Bariyan managed to dodge, suddenly picking up speed to close the distance between him and Martin. But the cries hit him hard. All the warping was on the surface, so Bariyan could still hear Martin underneath -- Martin, just Martin, the sad child he'd tried to protect through all these months -- and it'd always hurt to hear his children's unhappiness, hadn't it?

He made a grab for Martin's hands, both of them. He knew that was how Martin conjured. But, oh, what did it matter? If Martin wanted to hit him again then so be it. Gods knew Bariyan deserved as much.

The sound became a scream of panic and fury, blood boiling over. Why wouldn't it go away. Again and again, he conjured, less focus on aim and more on quantity, the force pushing him backward faster and farther, only encouraging him more. His head swam with the stupor of it all, in better states of mind it would've been nauseating, but with how he'd been feeling, such a state was welcome.

So die, go away, DIE.

Bariyan forced his way through the barrage, one step at time.

What had he said, the first time they'd met? (A strike past his side.) You're going to be a problem. (Through the collarbone, this time. The lance shattered.) And Martin had been a problem but, oh, children always were-- (A point, rapidly approaching his eyes. Bariyan dodged that one.) --Martin couldn't be blamed. (Ripping through his left arm.) Not for his father's death. (Driving into his leg.) Not for his sister's possession. (Another one through the ribs.) Not for this. (A last one. Splintering through the shoulder.)

Bariyan pushed through and held his hand out to Martin, again.

"Are you done now?" he asked. Quiet, without blame.

It might have felt a relief, conjuring, but he couldn't do it forever. Lances fell to dust, the backlash only adding to the filth building up within and without.

He couldn't keep it up forever, but this...this shape, this thing...It wouldn't go away.

Despair. Fear.

The next lance was pointed down, sending Martin into the air. He twisted, tucking and rolling as he landed, scrambling to his feet and running.

Bariyan slammed a hand forwards. His fingers closed on empty air, too slow to stop Martin from escaping. And his body now too broken to give chase.

He ran after Martin anyways, staggering out of the alley as he feet sought new balance, trying to readjust to torn muscles and broken bones. But Martin was moving much faster than him now -- always had -- and he soon lost sight of the boy.

Bariyan stopped, momentarily. He swayed on his feet and fell back against the nearest wall, hanging his head in despair.

"God-- damn-- it--"

Even though Bariyan had not outright asked for help, Koltira had every intention of following through on his earlier promise. He would do what he could, though his efforts so far had yielded little results. True, he had managed some protection of both the boy and those he encountered, but this situation needed a permanent solution. He didn't know what that was yet, and he was trying not to contemplate the obvious.

Instead, he focused on what seemed useful--finding the child, finding Bariyan. He was relieved when he came upon the latter, albeit not very. The extent of the man's wounds was obvious at a distance, and horrific up close. Somehow the lack of blood made Bariyan's punctured body more unnerving; his exposed innards were all in place, but dry, clean and alien. If Koltira were not a walking horror himself, he might have been disturbed.

As it stood, he was just alarmed, more because of what the injuries meant than anything else. The child had to be close by.

"Bariyan!" he called. "Which way?!"

Ashraf isn't far behind Koltira, looking grim. If Martin has been found, if he's near — then there's going to have to be a decision made. Maybe Bariyan isn't the man to make it, maybe it will have to fall to others, but Martin has to be stopped—

—And that's when he actually sees Bariyan. He stops dead, eyes widening, shifting immediately into horror. He's a priest, healing is what he does — and as such, he's seen an awful lot of damage. But nothing like this.

Koltira can handle the boy. Ashraf won't be much help there, he's only a priest. So he makes for Bariyan instead, trying to bite back the horror. He can't heal him, but maybe he can do something.

Bariyan raised his head at the new arrivals, staring blankly at the two of them, hazily wondering where they had come from and what they were asking of him. He only fully registered the situation when Ashraf came towards him.

He pushed himself back off the wall, trying to avoid the priest. But his legs were still shaky and he staggered into Koltira instead.

"No," he growled, pushing himself back off. "I don't--" --need you, he meant to finish, but ran out of energy.

He allowed a moment to steady himself before he set off again, heading around the corner that Martin had disappeared behind. A part of him realized that that was hardly enough to convince Koltira and Ashraf to stay away. But the rest of him was too fixated on Martin to even think about anything else.

The city was a rat maze, too similar at every turn to recognize where he'd been and not been. It wasn't far away he found nothing but walls greeting him, no way out but up. His palms ran up the brick and metal, claws curling and seeking out handholds, finding none...And it was so tall, all the way up...

Trapped! His body shook with terror, feeling the taste of bile fill his mouth again. Thoughtlessly, he cried out, horrified by the loud echo he caused and shrank down, burying his head into his knees.

I don't know what to do. Help. Help.

He wasn't surprised, or, by this point, particularly bothered by the reaction. Instead of saying anything, Koltira just followed Bariyan grimly, his jaw set, his mouth a thin, weary line. He's convinced that some small hope does exist here, that if they can just get Martin to keep still long enough for Bariyan to reach him, the situation will change.

Mostly convinced, anyway.

The sight of Bariyan forcing himself to continue on after Martin is somehow even worse. He blanches, tosses a glance at Koltira— and follows. There's little else to do, squeamishness be damned. He casts a round of magic over them all as he goes, sparing Bariyan the blessing (no promises that one will go well), but otherwise looking to ensure they'll be prepared for whatever they finally catch up to.

Bariyan rolled to a stop when they had caught up, maintaining a distance after seeing that the boy was curled up again. Oh, he hated that. He hated that this was happening. He hated every moment of this situation. He hated.

He looked up at the buildings they were surrounded by, trying to determine where Martin would run next, where he would go. But was there any point? Martin was hardly acting rationally, and Bariyan was too sick with despair to think clearly.

"Go," he said, without looking back at Koltira or Ashraf. There was no force behind the word.

He swept forwards.

Martin dared to peek out past his arm and saw the tiny army of shapes moving toward him. His breath hitched, then started up in panicked gasps, his body curling tighter until it hurt too much. He twisted out of his hunched-up state, palms smacking at the ground and the wall behind him to find his bearings and a means to his feet.

They were bigger than him, and they were going to kill him because he looked like a monster. That's all there was to it. His eyes darted around and up again, desperate for escape. It's too high!

But he had to get away.

He went up, launched by conjuring directly at the ground, and scrambled, clawing at the high wall until he could hang on long enough to plant his feet. Another lance sent him soaring over and past the trio to a heavy landing beyond, giving him open space to run. The weapon was dust raining down on them as he fled.

Koltira raised his runeblade, using it as a shield against the crumbling remains of Martin's lance. He frowned after the boy, but did not make to move just yet. He well knew what Martin thought of him, and what his reaction might be if Koltira made any aggressive moves. He planned to hang back, far enough to be hidden, and to reveal himself only as a means to push the child closer to Bariyan. An understanding between them was his final, desperate hope.

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)