June Event: Chaos, Chaos!

[lifeaftr_mods]

JUNE EVENT: CHAOS, CHAOS!

Who: Anyone and everyone!
What: It's just a little chaos...
When: June 17th - June 22nd
Where: Primarily Io, though also across Ensō and the islets if applicable
Warnings: Violence, possible body horror, potential anxiety and dysmorphia associated with body-swapping

Who Keeps Spinning the World Around?

The morning of June 17th, you'll probably notice things are amiss rather quickly. Your hands aren't your hands, or you're no longer in a squishy human flesh shape, or worse. Maybe your Lawful Good persona has plummeted into an outright Chaotic Evil one. Or maybe you wake up with a brand new power in your hands! Whatever the case is, no explanation is going to be immediately forthcoming, from Eleu or the Storyteller or anyone else. You'll have to figure out this mess on your own. Adjust to your new circumstances, master your new powers, and do what you can to make it through the next few days...because they're going to be some very interesting ones, for certain.

Catch Me If You Can!

Come June 20th, whether you're back to normal selves or not, Eleu has a job for you. A request, even. They're going to need your help to take care of this little problem and put a stop to all this absolute madness.

Those interested in helping can get in touch with any of the honeybees buzzing anxiously about Io, and they will redirect you to the Honeycomb, which has now been provided with several barrels of Honeycomb Sledgehammers for your use. You don't have to take one if you don't need it, but they make a very powerful weapon. Additionally, Eleu will take care to assure that, in exchange for your help, you may keep the Sledgehammer, if you so choose. Those interested in assisting may access our boss fight at its top-level below. This is a single thread with no order, but anyone may participate, regardless of their current state of being. Don't worry about how you contribute, or tag speed. Anyone who's concerned about being left out is welcome to reach out to us to handwave or backtag their involvement, if necessary!

The Clown Box is going to put up a fight, though. And it's not going to be pretty.

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] June 17th: Chaos begins!
[ ♆ ] June 21st: On the eve of the final battle, Storytelling commences.
[ ♆ ] June 22nd: Characters confront the Clown Box, and all parties return to normal.
[ ♆ ] June 25th: All parties become privy to the final outcome involving the Clown Box.

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

Comments

[bloodbathing]

[ Unlike so many others, Wash doesn't receive a glare when he approaches. Nor does Maine's posture speak of tightly reined aggression or outright disdain. It's better than it could be — especially since he actually responds to the name, and does so without snarling an objection.

But Maine also doesn't relax the way he usually does when seeing Wash. There's nothing open about his expression. He just looks … indifferent.

After a moment spent looking at Wash's visor (still that updated armor, he notes), Maine raises his eyebrows slightly:

"What?" ]

[counterblows]

[...it's him. It has to be. Right?]

[Unless it's not.]

[No verbal answer. That's not strange. None of this is...strange, yet. But given the way everyone is being shuffled around in terms of bodies and species and everything else, how else is he supposed to read that?]

Just...making sure it's you. I mean, people have been ending up in other people's bodies and stuff. Wanted to check your status.

[bloodbathing]

[ Ah. That.

Maine's yet to experience a shift in species, but he's not oblivious to what's going on around him. He doesn't care about it — cares even less now than what feels (and doesn't feel) like two years ago — but he's noticed it.

He raises a shoulder in a careless half-shrug. ]

"My body."

[ It's not words. Not exactly. It's an attempt at words; Maine's lips, at least, still form them correctly. But his maimed tongue doesn't move the way it should, and what's left of his vocal cords produce noises that barely sound human.

It should be shocking and disturbing. It's not. Maine's had two years to accept it. He just wishes he had Sigma to speak as well. ]

[counterblows]

[Oh, no.]

[The scars on his throat. The way he can't form the words. Wash's heart is a knot of tissue tightening like a fist in his chest, and he swallows hard. Is it just physical? Does he remember anything else?]

[What else does he remember?]

[Sigma?]

[His head has to be empty. It has to be, if Sigma isn't speaking for him. He never hesitated to. He spoke far too much, and - ]

Your - your phone. Think you can...?

[A loose gesture with his hand, mimicking typing on a keyboard.]

[bloodbathing]

[ One dark eyebrow rises a bit, but Maine obliges. He looks down as he fishes his phone from a pocket, turning his head slightly in the process. The change in angle may allow Wash to see that the back of Maine's head is unmarked: the Meta's symbol is absent.

Once he retrieves his phone, Maine types out what he just said and turns the screen to show Wash. ]

My body.

[ Something that Sigma certainly would have chimed in to explain, if Maine had his A.I. ]

[counterblows]

[No tattoo. Just a dataport, where an A.I. should be. It's got to be empty. It has to be. Sigma wouldn't be quiet for this long if it was. Is that even possible? Can something like this just...grab someone from the world and slot them into place like that?]

[Going off on tangents.]

And - [your mind?]

[No. God no. Can he imagine starting with that?]

Your memories?

[bloodbathing]

[ Briefly, Maine considers being cheeky and responding with, "Mine." But he understands what Wash means. He knows that someone's body can change without their mind following: it's happened to him before.

He never told Wash about that. Didn't mention it to anyone. He thinks that only Texas knows, if that little girl was indeed her.

Maine tilts his head slightly, considering how to explain. Sigma would know. Sigma would put it into words far more eloquent than Maine's. And, as though thinking of the A.I.'s absence makes it worse, Maine's head throbs; he tries to suppress a wince. ]

Remember here. Remember more from home. Time's weird.

[ It's a veritable speech, but it still doesn't capture how disorienting it is. Sigma could say it better. Maine presses his lips together, frustrated. ]

Missing Sigma.

[counterblows]

[So he does know.]

[Well, fuck.]

How much more?

[Sigma. That, in and of itself, is a simple indication of how far along Maine has...advanced. The scars on his throat are just the physical indications of that. But he's still him - not yet cannibalized into a collective, an antigestalt whose pieces wrench at the whole. There's a window where he's still - ]

[Don't be permanent.]

[Please, fuck, god, if there is one thing he can have from this, he needs the assurance that this isn't going to be permanent.]

[bloodbathing]

[ Unfortunately, Maine can offer no such assurances. He doesn't know how this happened, nor does he care. It is what it is. As far as he's concerned, this is an improvement. Not his body, of course — that was broken, and hate still claws at this throat every time he swallows and feels pain. But Sigma has helped him. Sigma has improved him. Sigma has made him better.

But Sigma isn't here, and the cold slot in Maine's head where flames should burn aches. ]

Two years.

[ He adds a slight wave of his hand, evidently considering the exact date to be unimportant. ]

[counterblows]

[Fuck.]

[Don't fall apart on him now, Washington. Don't - not in the poetic sense, and definitely not in the literal, either. The last thing he needs is to go tipping out of this body and shimmering like a holo-light, like the A.I. Maine should have and doesn't, and raise more questions.]

[Sigma's not here. That's good. That's good, right?]

[(It's not stopping his headaches.)]

You...you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay without him.

[He has to be.]

[He has to be.]

[bloodbathing]

[ Maine's jaw tightens, and he raises his chin slightly, looking down at Wash. His expression isn't angry, precisely — as natural and comfortable as rage is, it's hard for Maine to get outright angry with Wash — but it shows something akin to annoyance. Like he's offended at the suggestion that he might not be okay.

"No shit."

Expressed as a dismissive snort rather than with words.

(He's lying. He won't be okay, and he knows it. But admitting it would be acknowledging a weakness, and Maine can't do that. He won't.) ]

[counterblows]

Look, I don't know. You know I don't...have one. I don't know how deep they can...

[That's a lie. That's all a lie, Washington. Shut up before you make this all worse. As if he's been doing anything but that, by saying as little as possible about the Project's future as he can. About Maine's future.]

[(How much further ahead can they go before it all gets to be too much?)]

...sorry. It hurts, I'm guessing. [He doesn't guess. He knows.] How bad is it?

[bloodbathing]

[ One muscular shoulder rises in a half-shrug, and Maine averts his eyes, dropping his gaze to his phone rather than continuing to look at Wash. Yeah, it hurts. Hurts a hell of a lot, but there's no point trying to describe how much. No point in trying to put into words the way that spikes of pain shoot through his mind, ripping away all thought except for Sigma's absence. No point in trying to describe the way it feels like someone's hollowed out sections of his brain, and how all the empty places rub raw.

He's still functional, more or less. There's no enemy here. He won't be a liability. ]

Had worse.

[ Nine bullets to the throat hurt worse. Maine kept fighting then; he'll keep fighting now. ]

[counterblows]

Yeah.

[Recall the ghost he once saw, and couldn't believe he was seeing. Recall fingers reaching up to brush the smooth expanse of skin, where scar tissue had not yet settled in to live, and the lump that rose in his throat. Recall the memory that wasn't a memory, but more of a fantasy.]

[Then don't.]

You always have, haven't you?

[bloodbathing]

[ There's a flicker of something odd in Maine's expression. Something like discomfort, or maybe even uncertainty. He remembers this. He remembers his teammates caring about each other. Remembers when he cared about them. And he remembers when it all burned away in the wake of cutthroat competition. He remembers when Sigma became his only partner.

The thing is, neither set of memories feels more recent than the other. The times collide in his head. Wash's acknowledgment feels both bizarre and perfectly natural, and Maine doesn't know what to do with it.

In the end, Maine shrugs again. Types out two words: ]

My job.

[ Then, seeking to push forward (always forward), he points at Wash and gives a thumbs up, then tilts his head slightly: "you good?" ]

[counterblows]

[The job. The war. Do what you have to do, no matter what it takes. Get saddled with the consequences of the fight, but accept them unquestionably. He never did anything other than what was asked of him, because he could fight like no one else could, could take more hits than anyone.]

[Because he could take a full magazine to the throat and keep moving as long as it was required.]

[Wash's head angles slightly away as his shoulders shift in an incremental shrug.]

Well. It's been a weird few days, if you can believe it.

[bloodbathing]

[ That observation earns something that's become increasingly rare: a soft snort of amusement from Maine. He hums in agreement and shifts his weight, stance becoming marginally more relaxed. Just a shadow of how (comparatively) casual he used to be around Wash, but it's something. ]

Wanted to help strangers.

[ He shakes his head. Fuckin' weird, right? ]

[counterblows]

You know most people would say that's not really a bad thing.

[Though it is...a weird thing. Looks like it's not just people's bodies that are being shuffled around, if this is any indication. Wash's...species? Maine's disposition?]

[There's probably a consistency or a pattern here, if he could scope it out. Doesn't have enough data.]

But - yeah. I guess you could say it's not really your style.

[bloodbathing]

[ Maine's scarred eyebrow arches, then he huffs again, still amused. He's no bleeding heart lending a helping hand to every person he sees. He has priorities. He has a mission.

A memory surfaces: a younger Wash (David) looking up into his eyes. He was younger, too. Hopeful. Naïve.

Maine shakes his head. No, it's not his style. ]

Know cause?

[ He gestures to himself, indicating the change that's taken place. ]

[counterblows]

Everyone's dealing with something.

[He...really doesn't want to demonstrate. Or draw examples from his own experiences, so, uh, he won't do that. Instead, he's gonna focus on explanations, because that's easier and also less likely to raise yet more questions.]

Some people seem to've...switched bodies. Church is, last I checked, in a nine-foot-tall guy wearing a paper bag on his head. And I guess it looks like some people didn't switch bodies, but instead switched, uh - something else.

[Like...time.]

[bloodbathing]

[ The description of Church's predicament is bizarre enough to (at least temporarily) distract Maine from trying to unravel the mystery. He blinks and tilts his head, clearly bemused. The height is ridiculous enough — coming from Maine, that's saying something — but what really gets him is: ]

Paper bag?

[ Why the fuck is he wearing a paper bag? ]

[counterblows]

Yeah, that's...I guess that's just the body of the guy he ended up in. Apparently the guy is a doctor. Not that I'd trust someone who wears a paper bag on their head and uses giant scalpels, but Church says he's just an ordinary guy underneath that.

So I guess the takeaway here is that you're, uh, not the only one.

[He is. not going to bring up the cat thing. He's just not.]

[bloodbathing]

[ A nine-foot-tall doctor who uses giant scalpels and wears a paper bag on his head. Maine stares for a moment longer before shaking his head in disbelief. Because honestly, what the fuck. ]

Poor Church.

[ Maine doesn't consider his own situation to be unfortunate. He wants Sigma, of course, but he's still better like this.

He types again and gesture to Wash. ]

Lucky.

[ That Wash has suffered no ill effects, he means. ]

[counterblows]

[Luckier than you, he doesn't say.]

...yeah. [He's gonna pRAY that his body holds together. He does not want to set about trying to explain this. Not again. Not under these circumstances.] Wasn't...you know, always. Got bounced around a bit. Not important. Not important; back to normal now.

[There's a very faint note of desperation there. Please let him get back to normal soon.]

Are you seriously...okay?

[bloodbathing]

[ Maine doesn't miss that hint of desperation. He cocks an eyebrow again, more curious than concerned. If it were something pressing or life-threatening, Wash would tell him — right?

Then Wash asks if he's okay. Not insists that he's going to be, but asks if he is. Again, there's an odd flicker of uncertainty in Maine's expression. When was the last time anyone other than the Counselor asked him questions like this? He shifts his weight and shrugs, discomfort making itself known physically. ]

Just pain.

[ He can deal with that. ]