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TDM // #1
REBIRTH ALWAYS FOLLOWS DEATH
You died. Sort of. You float, sort of, blissfully unaware in a snug cocoon as both your Self and the world beyond slowly align. You're you still, you think, a hazy awareness as your eyes flutter open, and you see... nothing. A viscous substance blurs your vision, faint thrills of panic coiling around your lungs, swelling in your throat; wrapped in an ectoplasmic sheath, you're disoriented at best, frantically wondering where you are and how you wound up here. Whatever here is. Everything’s fuzzy, perception is limited, movement is restricted... and then it dawns on you, glacial down your spine, the nagging certainty that wherever you were before, you no longer exist there.
You're trapped. Your once cozy cocoon quickly becomes your prison, and an overwhelming sense of dread incites you to escape. On your own, you'll tire rapidly, weak still, unadjusted to the Netherworld's configuration. Scream loud enough and someone might come to your aid, though the process will leave you weaker still; as a new Restless, you go from the semi-sensory deprivation of the Shroud into your new existence without warning or preparation, spilling out of your protective husk breathless, confused, and naked. You're free, but at what cost.
Blink. Breathe. Find your footing. When your eyes get used to the twilight-hued ambience, you'll immediately see more Shrouds, everywhere and ripped apart like a vast nest of broken cauls. Through the emerald fog surrounding you, doors. An endless cluster of them, no frames, no jambs. Your name is carved on one of them, and you don't know how or why you know this, but you do. You'll find yourself inherently drawn to yours: maybe it's a pull, a hum, a light, a quiet sound in the static. Instinctively, you know it's safe, and you know that whatever you'll find within, calling out to you, you ought to protect... but before you run and cross the threshold, your focus wanes, and you catch something in the periphery of your vision...
You died. Sort of. You float, sort of, blissfully unaware in a snug cocoon as both your Self and the world beyond slowly align. You're you still, you think, a hazy awareness as your eyes flutter open, and you see... nothing. A viscous substance blurs your vision, faint thrills of panic coiling around your lungs, swelling in your throat; wrapped in an ectoplasmic sheath, you're disoriented at best, frantically wondering where you are and how you wound up here. Whatever here is. Everything’s fuzzy, perception is limited, movement is restricted... and then it dawns on you, glacial down your spine, the nagging certainty that wherever you were before, you no longer exist there.
You're trapped. Your once cozy cocoon quickly becomes your prison, and an overwhelming sense of dread incites you to escape. On your own, you'll tire rapidly, weak still, unadjusted to the Netherworld's configuration. Scream loud enough and someone might come to your aid, though the process will leave you weaker still; as a new Restless, you go from the semi-sensory deprivation of the Shroud into your new existence without warning or preparation, spilling out of your protective husk breathless, confused, and naked. You're free, but at what cost.
Blink. Breathe. Find your footing. When your eyes get used to the twilight-hued ambience, you'll immediately see more Shrouds, everywhere and ripped apart like a vast nest of broken cauls. Through the emerald fog surrounding you, doors. An endless cluster of them, no frames, no jambs. Your name is carved on one of them, and you don't know how or why you know this, but you do. You'll find yourself inherently drawn to yours: maybe it's a pull, a hum, a light, a quiet sound in the static. Instinctively, you know it's safe, and you know that whatever you'll find within, calling out to you, you ought to protect... but before you run and cross the threshold, your focus wanes, and you catch something in the periphery of your vision...
► I. REAP WHAT YOU SOW
a. A CLOAKED FIGURE STANDS BEFORE YOU, EERILY QUIET. It only stares, faceless, towering well over you as you struggle to find your balance on your weakened feet, the air you breathe in scorching your throat. Your senses are annoyingly muddled, and it's enough of a distraction, perhaps, to overlook your state of undress. And then it finally speaks. The Reaper. It's surprisingly polite, its voice a melodious string of low hissing notes as it calmly explains what and where you are; a Restless, citizen of the Netherworld. You were reborn here for reasons unknown, another soul among thousands with seemingly unfinished business, cursed or blessed to roam a world slowly devoured by an entropic force. Hell? Perhaps, if it suits your beliefs, though some do thrive here, and keeping Oblivium at bay is a collective effort.
Around you, others like you break out of their Shrouds, and some walk the land fully dressed, with an ease that unequivocally evokes the passage of time. They've been here for a while, and it shows. You might catch bits of conversations here and there, learn more about your new home and new purpose from eavesdropping. The Reaper that's helped you out of your cocoon is, unfortunately, a poor conversationalist, though it does point its rawboned finger towards the stormy horizon, speaking of an immense city in the far distance that shelters thousands of Restless and offers essential supplies for all. Stygia. It doesn't stay much longer: without preamble, the Reaper vanishes into a plume of indigo smoke, essentially leaving you to fend for yourself. This is your chance to reach and cross the threshold of your very own door, find some clothes, your Tethers, and a device that'll enable you to reach out to anyone willing to listen. Others like you might have answers on the Netherwork-- chattier Reapers, even. Just watch out. The moons above glisten crimson, and Badaliscus roam in especially high numbers across the Shadowlands, aggressive and carriers of plague-like diseases. If you wander, do mind the giant split in the earth as well, surrounded by blackened soil. You can't miss it, strange, guttural noises coming from its depths. A fall into a drop that steep would be deadly, as no light or hope shines at the bottom of the chasm... though l'appel du vide is nearly unbearable. Does it whisper your name?
THINGS YOU MIGHT HEAR OR OBSERVE
► some compare this place to a purgatory
► an old sage has apparently found a "stairway to heaven"
► another restless' acquaintance has recently lost their battle against their shadow and nearly killed them -- probably because they didn't have a soulmate. they now dwell in the labyrinth with other monstrosities
► some restless can be spotted laughing hysterically, or arguing with themselves
► objects never last unless reforged with a soul's essence
► the hierarchy used to send a welcome party for new arrivals but now seem reluctant to leave stygia -- maybe because new arrivals are now a daily thing, sometimes hourly
► no one seems to know what reapers truly are
► ferrymen never speak
THINGS YOU MIGHT STUMBLE UPON
► small fumaroles that emit occasional bursts of molten lava and splatter anyone nearby
► ragged open pits in the ground that spout boiling water and steam at irregular intervals
► six bones arranged in a hexagon on the ground. they appear to have been gnawed upon and bear teeth marks
► scattered rubies; if touched, they'll start shouting and demand that you "unhand them at once, varlet!!", which may attract funny looks or undesired attention
► withered trees, grass, deserted campfires, various debris, bloated corpses, and fog
► mirrors that reflect the back of the person that looks into them
► a mausoleum. the structure appears perfectly normal at first, but examination reveals that there are no doors to allow entry or exit
b. NOT ALL REAPERS ARE AMICABLE. The same cloaked figure unceremoniously yanks you out of your Shroud, a mouthful of mud and ashes as you brutally land on the ground. You feel everything all at once: the acute pain of your rebirth, the pull of your Tethers, the cacophony around you, and the dull voice in the back of your mind. You breathe, and then you don't, shackles around your neck, your wrists, the gravelly soil grazing your skin raw and bloody as you're pulled by your feet. Your screams remain unanswered, though it might catch the attention of a passerby, should they be brave enough to face your tormentor. Now would be a good time to resort to any skill you might have to free yourself, past your confusion and growing agony, lest you be carried to the Forges. It's the only thing it mentions, laughing unhinged as you approach the shores, where a brittle ship awaits you. The good news is that Reapers loathe water: splash it or try to push it overboard, a distraction that should allow you to strike in some way. The bad news is that the Tempest isn't kind to anyone, especially you, and you're sort of shackled. Rest assured that it'll fight back, tooth and claw, a scythe at its disposal as well as blood-curdling shrieks that might deafen or temporarily paralyze you. Scream for help if you've yet to get any: someone is bound to hear.
Around you, others like you break out of their Shrouds, and some walk the land fully dressed, with an ease that unequivocally evokes the passage of time. They've been here for a while, and it shows. You might catch bits of conversations here and there, learn more about your new home and new purpose from eavesdropping. The Reaper that's helped you out of your cocoon is, unfortunately, a poor conversationalist, though it does point its rawboned finger towards the stormy horizon, speaking of an immense city in the far distance that shelters thousands of Restless and offers essential supplies for all. Stygia. It doesn't stay much longer: without preamble, the Reaper vanishes into a plume of indigo smoke, essentially leaving you to fend for yourself. This is your chance to reach and cross the threshold of your very own door, find some clothes, your Tethers, and a device that'll enable you to reach out to anyone willing to listen. Others like you might have answers on the Netherwork-- chattier Reapers, even. Just watch out. The moons above glisten crimson, and Badaliscus roam in especially high numbers across the Shadowlands, aggressive and carriers of plague-like diseases. If you wander, do mind the giant split in the earth as well, surrounded by blackened soil. You can't miss it, strange, guttural noises coming from its depths. A fall into a drop that steep would be deadly, as no light or hope shines at the bottom of the chasm... though l'appel du vide is nearly unbearable. Does it whisper your name?
► some compare this place to a purgatory
► an old sage has apparently found a "stairway to heaven"
► another restless' acquaintance has recently lost their battle against their shadow and nearly killed them -- probably because they didn't have a soulmate. they now dwell in the labyrinth with other monstrosities
► some restless can be spotted laughing hysterically, or arguing with themselves
► objects never last unless reforged with a soul's essence
► the hierarchy used to send a welcome party for new arrivals but now seem reluctant to leave stygia -- maybe because new arrivals are now a daily thing, sometimes hourly
► no one seems to know what reapers truly are
► ferrymen never speak
► small fumaroles that emit occasional bursts of molten lava and splatter anyone nearby
► ragged open pits in the ground that spout boiling water and steam at irregular intervals
► six bones arranged in a hexagon on the ground. they appear to have been gnawed upon and bear teeth marks
► scattered rubies; if touched, they'll start shouting and demand that you "unhand them at once, varlet!!", which may attract funny looks or undesired attention
► withered trees, grass, deserted campfires, various debris, bloated corpses, and fog
► mirrors that reflect the back of the person that looks into them
► a mausoleum. the structure appears perfectly normal at first, but examination reveals that there are no doors to allow entry or exit
if you choose to address the netherwork directly as one of your prompts, reapers or any other npc might reply to you. otherwise, feel free to speculate with other characters!
additionally, if you wind up poisoned or injured by a badaliscus, the occasional scaleberry can sometimes be found in the shadowlands, often rotten and scattered around withered trees. you'll find this kind of information in your smartphone's database, but anyone with healing abilities could also come to your aid: just remember that magic in the netherworld is unpredictable.
lastly, if l'appel du vide is too strong for you to resist, and if no one is able to keep you from falling to your death, a reaper will eventually give you a hand, immediately poofing out of existence afterwards.
b. NOT ALL REAPERS ARE AMICABLE. The same cloaked figure unceremoniously yanks you out of your Shroud, a mouthful of mud and ashes as you brutally land on the ground. You feel everything all at once: the acute pain of your rebirth, the pull of your Tethers, the cacophony around you, and the dull voice in the back of your mind. You breathe, and then you don't, shackles around your neck, your wrists, the gravelly soil grazing your skin raw and bloody as you're pulled by your feet. Your screams remain unanswered, though it might catch the attention of a passerby, should they be brave enough to face your tormentor. Now would be a good time to resort to any skill you might have to free yourself, past your confusion and growing agony, lest you be carried to the Forges. It's the only thing it mentions, laughing unhinged as you approach the shores, where a brittle ship awaits you. The good news is that Reapers loathe water: splash it or try to push it overboard, a distraction that should allow you to strike in some way. The bad news is that the Tempest isn't kind to anyone, especially you, and you're sort of shackled. Rest assured that it'll fight back, tooth and claw, a scythe at its disposal as well as blood-curdling shrieks that might deafen or temporarily paralyze you. Scream for help if you've yet to get any: someone is bound to hear.
► II. OF SOULS & SHADOWS
a. WHETHER YOU'VE FAILED TO FREE YOURSELF OR MANAGED TO BOARD A FRIENDLIER SHIP, you won't escape the storm, a tempest within a tempest.
Grey clouds boil across the sky in a bruise-colored wall, forked lightning and thunder booming overhead. The clouds open, a black and green funnel growing down towards you. As it swirls closer, you see faces, staring out from within and screaming. Gale force winds whip the sails of your ship, debris flying through the air: glass, wood, metal. The ship sways, and you sway with it, the groans of your vessel as it's tossed about in rough waters almost deafening. It's terrifying. If you were being transported to the Forges, the Reaper quickly abandons you, leaving you to your demise. If you were lucky enough to board a safer ship, pay attention. You're holding on for dear unlife as sheets of rain slap against your face, blown off-balance by heavy gusts of wind, but you see them in the raging waves, Restless just like you, shackled and helpless in the storm. You have a choice, your first dilemma: focus your energies on saving yourself and anyone else aboard your ship, or take the wheel and navigate through the winds, screams and flotsam in order to try and rescue them. Coils of rope are available, tarps, barrels and buckets.
b. WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE OR WHEREVER YOU ARE, your Shadow might take this very ill-timed opportunity to make itself known -- if it hasn't already. You're scared, torn, tired, and maybe a little hysterical -- it knows. It's in your head. Literally. It's you, and it's not, a growing onslaught of inappropriate thoughts, impulsive and intrusive as it makes an attempt to figure you and itself out. It's never been sentient before, perhaps even unsure of its purpose for a time. And then, as you struggle against the storm, it speaks:
Deaded things slam into you, spat out of the tornado. The sight snaps you out of your daze, but you don't have time to ponder whether this eerie interlude was real. It won't speak again, never directly. You'll know it's there, viscerally, as your Self and Shadow struggle to come to grips with this new antagonistic yet symbiotic relationship. If you've never been kind to yourself before, learn how to, because it won't be.
Luckily, this whole ordeal may have left somewhat of a positive mark on you: Sparks. Two of them. It's a light buzz in the back of your mind, a tickle beneath your skin as nether magic courses through your veins, an inherent part of you now. The knowledge of what is happening to you is abstract at best, but it's there, and if necessary, you'll know how to use your newfound abilities:
Grey clouds boil across the sky in a bruise-colored wall, forked lightning and thunder booming overhead. The clouds open, a black and green funnel growing down towards you. As it swirls closer, you see faces, staring out from within and screaming. Gale force winds whip the sails of your ship, debris flying through the air: glass, wood, metal. The ship sways, and you sway with it, the groans of your vessel as it's tossed about in rough waters almost deafening. It's terrifying. If you were being transported to the Forges, the Reaper quickly abandons you, leaving you to your demise. If you were lucky enough to board a safer ship, pay attention. You're holding on for dear unlife as sheets of rain slap against your face, blown off-balance by heavy gusts of wind, but you see them in the raging waves, Restless just like you, shackled and helpless in the storm. You have a choice, your first dilemma: focus your energies on saving yourself and anyone else aboard your ship, or take the wheel and navigate through the winds, screams and flotsam in order to try and rescue them. Coils of rope are available, tarps, barrels and buckets.
b. WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE OR WHEREVER YOU ARE, your Shadow might take this very ill-timed opportunity to make itself known -- if it hasn't already. You're scared, torn, tired, and maybe a little hysterical -- it knows. It's in your head. Literally. It's you, and it's not, a growing onslaught of inappropriate thoughts, impulsive and intrusive as it makes an attempt to figure you and itself out. It's never been sentient before, perhaps even unsure of its purpose for a time. And then, as you struggle against the storm, it speaks:
Enjoying your first taste of sea-salt horrors? You can feel it, can't you. The pull. It's eating at you, subtly, but it's there. You can’t run. You can’t
get away from me either, because I’m you, and I’m just as
much a part of you as all the noble ideals you hold. All the awful
thoughts you ever entertained, all the things you were ashamed of or couldn't bring yourself to say, and all the
lies you told... that’s what I am, and you can’t make me go
away. You can’t outlive me. I’m going to remind you of
all the terrible things you did or wanted to do, and I’m going to
get you to do more of them, because you’re still
you and you still have all those nasty little urges
floating around. Only now I’m here to highlight
the opportunities you have to indulge. Don't be shy. If you won't speak your mind, I'll do it for you. If you ever considered redemption, think again. Fight me or silence me if you wish, it doesn't matter. Even if you succeed. I may go dormant for a while, but I'll always come back stronger. I'm your Shadow, and Oblivium awaits us.
Luckily, this whole ordeal may have left somewhat of a positive mark on you: Sparks. Two of them. It's a light buzz in the back of your mind, a tickle beneath your skin as nether magic courses through your veins, an inherent part of you now. The knowledge of what is happening to you is abstract at best, but it's there, and if necessary, you'll know how to use your newfound abilities:
a. Teleportation, allowing you to vanish into thin air and relocate anywhere you wish, the same way a Reaper would. Usable 4 times.
b. Mind-reading, albeit a bit murky. Think of it as a weak signal reception. Pry some information about the Netherworld out of an NPC's mind, or try to find out what a friend think of you. Lasts 12 hours.
► III. THE ETERNAL CITY
IF YOU'VE ELECTED TO REACH STYGIA INSTEAD OF MATERIALIZING BACK INTO YOUR HOME IN THE SHADOWLANDS, you'll be welcomed by fishermen in the Harbors, and most of them seem... well, a little annoyed, honestly. Additional mouths to feed, and all that. Stygia has been at max capacity for decades, and resources aren't always easily obtained. But they were like you, once -- freshly undead, overwhelmed -- and if they sigh and glower as you pass by, quick to dismiss you, you'll soon be guided towards what seems to be a Notice Board, a map of Stygia pinned just below. Make yourself useful, you're told. If you hope to survive here, better start by earning your keep!
If you're injured, you're out of luck. Hale is currently off-limits -- a collapse, apparently -- but poultices can be found in the Marketplace, bandages, etc. The only problem is... you have no coin, and not much to barter with. Pick a job from the Notice Board if you're willing, or find shelter in Serene: most people there will welcome you into their homes, so long as you don't overstay said welcome. Alternatively, if you ask around, a fellow Restless might be able to help you. Steal if you wish, though be warned that there might be consequences.
Meanwhile, if the thought of returning to the Shadowlands is a little overwhelming for now, you will come across empty buildings and houses all over Stygia, most of them in varying states of repair. They're yours for the taking, if you don't mind cob-webs or shattered windows, but all you have is time now, and a little renovation can go a long way!
As you explore your new environment, you might start experiencing odd and subtle changes...
If you're injured, you're out of luck. Hale is currently off-limits -- a collapse, apparently -- but poultices can be found in the Marketplace, bandages, etc. The only problem is... you have no coin, and not much to barter with. Pick a job from the Notice Board if you're willing, or find shelter in Serene: most people there will welcome you into their homes, so long as you don't overstay said welcome. Alternatively, if you ask around, a fellow Restless might be able to help you. Steal if you wish, though be warned that there might be consequences.
Meanwhile, if the thought of returning to the Shadowlands is a little overwhelming for now, you will come across empty buildings and houses all over Stygia, most of them in varying states of repair. They're yours for the taking, if you don't mind cob-webs or shattered windows, but all you have is time now, and a little renovation can go a long way!
As you explore your new environment, you might start experiencing odd and subtle changes...
ooc note
► Welcome to Nightfell's very first TDM! All threads can be considered game canon and may be used as samples if you choose to apply.
► Check out the Notice Board for additional prompts!
► For your convenience: Bestiary, Glossary, Setting.
► If you still have questions regarding the game in general, please refer to the FAQ. For questions specific to the TDM, ask them below!
► We hope you enjoy your first experience in Nightfell!
the eternal city
What the hell are you talking about? [Sorry, Jonas, lizard omens mean nothing to a Martian high school dropout.] Hey, you one of the people who just woke up here, too? You look different.
[He almost says, one of the dead, but the words don't make it out of his mouth. It's like he can't manage the utterance.]
Look, I don't wanna get back on that stupid... [vaguely angry gestures to the docked ships tethered nearby,] That thing. But some weird shit happened and no one's answering my questions. Did you feel it too?
no subject
(cut off mid-shout by the guy who'd been barfing against the adjacent building, jonas raises a shoulder. his dismissive body language is meant to ward against being buffeted with questions after humiliating himself in the role of town crier, but it fails epically when cain refuses to stop.
ugh. ugh.
jonas takes a better look at him after glancing back up the street to check on the old woman's progress with her lizard gossip train. she's made tracks down to the handwoven basket section. fine.)
It's called a ship, (he begins insufferably.) And I'm feeling all kinds of ways right now, so, uh, you're gonna have to pare your search down a bit. Are we talking about general existential dread here, or, like, about the voice in your head compelling you to loudly and publically tack "in bed" on the end of bible passages?
no subject
[Frustrated, Cain whips around as if to check behind him, because he was certain there were others with him on the 'ship' — his version of a ship being far superior, how could anyone stand to get on that rickety, wooden thing? — but the other Restless have all dispersed, leaving him alone and feeling just as crazy as before. Still, he can sense that warm and crackling static somewhere in the back of his mind, a low pulse less painful than his headache but equally as distracting.]
It's like... you know, kinda like a hangover? Except fuzzier. Brighter. And I feel like I can do something with it. Dunno, but—
[Here he makes a fatal error. Jonas is the unwilling victim in front of him, and it's only because Cain is beholden to the impulse of trying to puzzle out what happened to him while crossing the sea, that he reaches out and seizes a shoulder—and pries into his mind with the gifted Spark. The effort is weak, not intuitive, a flimsy rake through the shallow surface of the other boy's thoughts without direction.]
no subject
(asshole! jonas' first hostile response to cain is internal. he has unwittingly picked perhaps the most inadequate test subject along the harbour, jonas' uppermost mind an unfortunate cacophony of vague impressions of things. it's not that there aren't thoughts, there are, but they're malformed, literally colours and sounds and points of view when not actively focused on. almost immediately, they all press forward.
cain will receive the sense—through a confusing live feed of cain looking at jonas looking at cain—that the teenager thinks he looks rough, threatening, and attractive, and that his disposition is similar to that of someone who invited him out to a high school alumni party one night. completely unrelated, jumping to something more severe, the state of cain being soaking wet and obviously exhausted sparks empathy and, more relatably, strong aversion; he went through the same. he nearly drowned again. he nearly—
get off. get it off. shove him. hit him. hit him. fearing being startled more than the stranger's actions, the alarm is quickly superseded by strong, dutifully repressed anger. shrugging sharply, jonas raises a hand to try prying up cain's, and he is insistent but surprisingly gentle.)
Get off me, man. I'll be serious, you just—I was freaked out when I first got here, too, okay? Just get your hand off me and we can talk.
no subject
For a moment he feels like he's struggling with himself, but he has no reason to throw a fist—the feeling is so abrupt, almost too natural, that gentle touch on his hand is all that keeps Cain from acting on the impulse (he's swung his fists for less). Instead, he shoves back and separates them entirely, panting and half-doubled over.]
Shit— [What the fuck was that?] Uh, didn't mean to. Sorry. Don't really know what I did, but...
What's an alumni party?
[Clearly the most important question.]
no subject
Wouldn't you like to know, asshole? (his clap-back is immediate, as are the sharp gestures designed to make him look more intimidating than he inherently is.) You "didn't mean to"? That's such bullcrap, considering the fact that you grabbed me and then—you know, after that—rooted around in my head. Think I was born yesterday? What's the matter with you?
(huff, huff, wheeze.
a measured inhale is all it takes for jonas to settle down. the rant is out of the way, cain has been properly admonished, and all that's left now is maternal energy.)
You know, pulling a stunt like that is a really quick way to get yourself messed up. Not by me, by like—there are some crazy guys here, man.
no subject
[The snarl is react, defensive, inflamed by this stranger's anger as if doused in it himself—still sensitive, too, from having been submerged in someone else's minds even for those brief moments.]
I just... I wanted to know what the hell's going on, and you were right here, you looked normal... [Compared to the chaos of their surroundings, to the alien environment of Stygia at large, this guy is like a beacon of familiarity.] —fuck, [hissed, cut off] didn't I say sorry? What more do you want?
[He's quick to simmer, cooling back from the hackles of defensiveness in return. The alumni party will forever remain a mystery.]
... What do you mean by 'crazy guys'? [Cain gestures behind him, toward the ocean and the desolate lands beyond.] Like those hooded monsters back there?
no subject
jonas can relate. it's why his hands move from their tense place at his sides to his hair, pushing it back in a stressed-out ruffle.) Alright, okay, apology accepted... chill, I don't want to fight.
... What I saw—I don't know what I saw. Here— (explaining it is its own issue, only removing his fingers from his scalp to indicate where cain had been throwing up on the corner. it'd be better to talk there, or just down the sidestreet, to stay out of the way. jonas doesn't like to cause more problems than he's able to feasibly solve.) Well, for starters, some guy froze an entire tidal wave with a bomb, and another guy formed a whole arm out of... out of energy or something. It wasn't even—there was no reason for it, it was literally used to, like, hold his phone so he could make a ball of... wind appear in his hand.
(then there was set, the divine being who he helped take on a reaper. sakura, too, whose name and ability will go unmentioned in an effort to keep her safe from an unvetted restless.)
I wouldn't have believed it if everything else hadn't gone down. Are you... Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?
why are you taking him back to his puke corner of shame
The worst part is that Cain believes him.]
Huh? Yeah, I'm fine. [That's... surprising, and unusually kind, that someone who he just roughed around would care about his current state. It smooths Cain's grouchy demeanor appropriately.] I mean, I'll survive almost drowning. Whatever. We're dead anyway, aren't we? Does it even matter what happens?
[It feels like it matters. It feels like it matters a lot, and it's unfair that being undead would come along with so much additional pain and fear.]
... Fuck. I've seen some weird stuff before, but nothing what you said. [Alien tech doesn't promise energy arms and ice bombs, as far as he's aware, though it's possible the military didn't tell him about it.] Did those guys attack you?
bc doggy misbehaved
(it's second nature to flap the overlarge military jacket out and toss it over cain's shoulders. the guy's drenched, probably cold, and jonas isn't in need of it. simple, compassionate mathematics, the kind even he can do.
they hunch in the mouth of the alley to recollect themselves. wary eyes never leave cain whether they stay trained on his face or sink to update himself on his condition.)
Only those Reapers attacked me, man. Those other guys seemed alright. One of 'em I've actually been texting just fine, so... you know, it'd be easier if they were all douche-bags so I knew to avoid all of them and not just the lucky few.
no subject
[His voice is quiet, a little freaked out now, but he's sensible enough to catch the jacket when it's tossed. Cain strips off the upper layers of his wet clothing so the fabric won't immediately bleed with water when he slides the jacket on — so there's a momentary flash of a naked and shirtless torso, completely comfortable in the other's company as he changes.]
Thanks. I'll give it back once my stuff dries. [He takes his own clothes between both hands, wringing them out, splattering water on the ground between them.] Dunno how easy it'd be to avoid them, sounds like we're all in this shit together. What's your name?
no subject
(jonas won't tell him that there's a real possibility of it affecting him if he's been hacking up any seawater. while he was the one who brought it up, the intent behind it was simpler than panicking cain:
they can't dwell on "does anything matter when we're dead?" when actually believing that would debilitate them. selfishly, jonas believes that if one more person asks him that, he'll fall into a lie-down-in-bed-and-never-emerge-again depression. his arms are crossing tightly as though they'll block out his own thought.)
... I'm Jonas. I've got a place nearby one of these fisher guys loaned me for a couple days till I get myself squared out. It's not—it's a shithole, but you wanna head there, get a towel or something, and just sit?
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He exhales sharply through his nose, rubbing his face. The offer is appealing, even if it's not for any other purpose but to sit in silence and stare at the wall. He doesn't want to be alone.]
... Yeah. Yeah, sure. I'm not gonna be good company, just to warn you. I just wanna... not think for a minute.
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(on the network in the following days, jonas will state that he has never ventured far from the fisherman's house. while this will accidentally be a lie, his close calls in the amusement park's house of mirrors were the flukes that originally made him shut himself inside. it'll become obvious he wasn't exaggerating in the least.)
they walk together today and then suddenly slow, having been less than fifty yards from the shanty at which jonas has temporarily dropped anchor. there are two wooden ladders leading up two levels from the street to the door. he climbs them first, and because of the lazy angle they were built at, he barely needs to use his hands to help himself up. dutifully, loyally, he waits for cain at the top of both before pushing inside.)
All I needed today was a direction to go in. I think I might've gone along with anyone if it meant getting away from the water. So, it's better if you wind up with me instead of some... creep.
(inside, it's small, dimly lit a pale, sickly green from a glass ornament in the only window, and as crooked as the rest of the awkwardly placed homes up the harbour. there is fishing tackle strewn about, thick netting hanging from old rafters, and buoys and other bobbles leading like string lights into the washroom and adjacent bedrooms.)
... What's your name, man?
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Once the ladder is clear, he climbs up it with ease, too used to doing the same in a fighter. Cain squints into the dim, sallow light; he picks his way into the room, nudging a discolored and ancient buoy with the toe of his boot.]
Oh. Cain. [The call sign comes naturally, an identity he's assumed at this point so completely that it would feel wrong to shed it, even if it doesn't matter anymore.] Not saying I don't believe you, but you're a stranger too — could be a creep for all I know. You were yelling about dead lizards on the street like a weirdo earlier.
[There's a hint of a smirk on his face, showing the humor. He's beginning to feel better away from the water.]
Then again, creeps invite people back to their room for just one reason, and I don't think you're looking for that. So it's really more of a risk to you than me. [...] So, yeah. Thanks.
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jonas slips away while cain speaks, still well within earshot; the walls are paper thin.) Oh, Jesus, yeah, I live to lure guys hurling on street corners into my mouldy lair, (he comments, voice raising so that he's heard as he rummages in a cabinet for a pile of moth-bitten fabric. bingo.
does the guy who lives here ever entertain friends? why is it such a shithole?)
It's a superstition here, apparently. Like, "see a dead lizard and a flood is coming." I got roped into spreading the bad news, so... your creep theory has been debunked. Here— (he thrusts a towel at his guest's chest, waiting for him to take the threadbare thing before heading to the couch.)
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I mean, I've seen worse. Maybe you just wanna rob me. Never know what someone wants from you, even if it's just the clothes on your back. [Cain takes the towel gratefully, leaning to flip it over his head and scrub at wet, damp strands of hair. His voice is is only marginally muffled; he's repressing his alarm, for now.] Damn... that's freaky. You think it's true? Are we at high enough ground? 'Cause I don't know how to swim.
[Which explains why he loved almost drowning. A dead lizard as an omen... after the Reapers and the thunderstorm, he'd buy it.]
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(the addendum is pointless filler; usually, jonas is awkward in the sense that his execution leaves a lot to be desired. never lacking in subject matter, he can talk nonstop, uninterrupted, for a long time. cain is taking turns subbing in, however, when jonas finds himself finally bereft.
maybe it is strange that he's brought cain back here alone, but what can either of them do about it now? he sinks a bit lower on the couch.)
I'm not exactly the optimistic type, but I'm gonna say "no." If a dead lizard's all it takes to piss God off that badly, then I want to know where my flood is. I guess lizards have never sinned before.
... It's alright. It's gonna be fine, man. This place was clearly built a while ago and it's lasted till now, right? Take a load off.
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Guess I robbed you.
[Ha, ha. He's so funny. The whole talk around the dead-lizard-omen is less appealing, so he lets it slide without as much commentary. He's not a religious person; should being here in the afterlife change his mind?]
... Yeah, you're probably right. [With a sigh, Cain finds a wall to lean against and sinks down to do the Slav squat.] Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and this'll all be a shitty dream.
[One can hope.]