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]

[ 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. ]

[counterblows]

[Just pain.]

[Yeah, 'cause he's a Freelancer. Pain's pretty standard. Get an axe to the chest, walk it off. Get a sniper round to the chest, full magazine to the throat, and get launched off a highway by a moving semi? You get better. That's just how the fuck Freelancer operates. You fight until you literally can't anymore, and then they scrape whatever's left together to make sure it keeps fighting.]

[Take that out of the war, and what's left?]

Still isn't great. I mean, without... [A vague gesture at the back of his neck. He's probably feeling that absence, right? Not that Wash can say with any certainty what it's like, not having it, but he remembers the headaches that had Maine reporting to medical. Remembers him clutching his head through his helmet.]

[Remembers watching, hearing, commenting. Not doing something about it.]

[bloodbathing]

[ As he watches Wash gesture at his own head, it occurs to Maine that he doesn't think he's ever heard Wash mention having an A.I. It's not something he'd have thought strange before — he didn't know better before — and he can't be entirely sure, what with all the memories from both home and here pressing in on his thoughts. But he's pretty sure that Wash has never talked about his A.I.

The big Freelancer gives Wash a searching look, then types out, ]

Sucks.

[ A massive understatement. Then: ]

You know?

[counterblows]

About Sigma?

[He knows too much about Sigma. He knows too much about what Sigma was and not enough about what he did, what the process of it was, because he never asked, never bothered. Got wrapped up more and more with everything but the things he should have paid attention to. God, how long was Maine screaming inside his own head? Was it something he allowed? Consented to? He's never balked at being used for a greater purpose before, has he, he's always let himself be the Project's blunt instrument or whatever it needed him to be so if it was Sigma - ]

[He doesn't know. He doesn't know.]

...kind of.

[Not a lie. Not really.]