lifeaftr | August Event: The City is at War

August Event: The City is at War

AUGUST EVENT: THE CITY IS AT WAR

Who: Everyone!
What: You pick a side, or you pick up the pieces
When: August 16th to August 23rd
Where: Primarily Nastrandir, though also Ensō
Warnings: Violence, injury, forcibly altered mindsets via magical influence, possible character death. Potential (and fully optional) dissociation and identity crises. Potential (and fully optional) spontaneous combustion. Otherwise, tag as you go!

We All Lose in the End
On cue, the recently uncovered...and decidedly faulty merotome shatters on the morning of August 16th. Those close enough may recall an odd popping noise, like a lightbulb exploding, or find a shard of some odd, rubbery substance caught in their hair. The wave that shoots out across both islands barely seems to stir the air, but the aftershocks of its passing are to be felt for the week to come.

Whether or not you noticed the sweeping burst of light as it roared over just about everything, you're bound to hear the loud, wailing sound that starts to emit from all over Nastrandir. It sounds like the world's worst kind of alarm, and it just keeps on going.

That's to say nothing of the automatons rising steadily from the murk, or the fact that you might find that some of your fellow explorers are suddenly seeming a lot more trustworthy...and some of them are seeming a lot less. Maybe you latch onto personal terrors and preexisting grudges to justify the new onset of violence that starts to divide you from some of your fellows...or maybe it just feels right in some unquantifiable sense.

Regardless, those impacted by the merotome will find themselves gravitating towards Nastrindar sooner rather than later. Members of the Red Team are likely to initially head towards the ruins on C4 and D4. The swampy water flooding the island will eventually drive you to seek out more mountainous areas; the need to keep dry will vary from a strong desire to an absolute necessity, depending on the individual. As territorial instincts rear their head, this group will find that the war automatons no longer view them as hostiles. Now, these mechanical killers may even take basic orders, such as watching a certain location, fetching some basic materials, and, of course, upon whom they should aim their primary fire.

Meanwhile, the Blue Team will congregate along the shorelines, striking out inland through any route that keeps them close to a body of water - or in it. More likely to travel and fight in a pair or group, it's unlikely that members of this group will stay from the main party for too long, as their power is largely in numbers. While no automatons accompany them into battle, the waters surrounding and soaking into Nastrandir are their greatest ally, as they are capable of replenishing strength and healing minor wounds. Members of the Blue Team will be capable of continuing the fight for much longer than their Red counterparts, and their affinity with the waters will make them difficult to locate or pursue unless they wish it.

You Don't Get Another Shot
For those more resistant to the effects of this sudden shift will find that they're now unfortunately adrift between two warring factions, potentially with friends on either side. There is hope, however - those previously silent sirens are now blaring constantly, and it's very possible that their destruction could turn the tide against this needless bloodshed. The more of those you break, the looser the grip of this altered mindset will become, and the less hostile the automatons will be.

Keep in mind, however, that while you may feel unaffected, the possibility stands that you've been marked for one side without your knowledge. And though this may prove advantageous to getting through to those that identify you as their own, those that do not may take your attempts to shake their morale badly.

Even violently.

Stick Around and See How It Ends
Thus far, the teams are as follows. If you see any problems, inconsistencies, or wish to change teams, please don't hesitate to contact us! While we're no longer accepting sign-ups to be RNG'd into a team, you can still decide retroactively which side you'd like your character to be situated on, if at all!

RED TEAM	BLUE TEAM
Alexei Dinoia Amaterasu Anthony J. Crowley Asgore Dreemurr Connor Murphy Edward Elric Erika Fisher Jules Dagger Samari Leonard Church Muffet Tim Wright Yukio Okumura Zidane Tribal	2B Alisaie Leveilleur Agent Washington Ben Hargreeves The Drifter Epsilon Héctor Rivera Herbert West Horatio Nullbuilt Kravitz Legion Mollymauk Tealeaf Ren Rin Okumura Steve Rogers

In the meantime, the following links may prove handy:

[ ♆ ] OOC Event Info and Plotting Post
[ ♆ ] Nastrandir's Intro
[ ♆ ] Nastrandir's Locations Page

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] August 16th: The merotome breaks, issuing a mind-altering wave; the sirens go off, and definitive sides in a conflict start to form
[ ♆ ] August 23rd: The conflict ends when those who have not been freed from the mind-altering influence either break free or burn to death
[ ♆ ] August 24th: The monthly Storytelling occurs late; characters who have died are revived in time to participate
[ ♆ ] September 4th: Extra time is allotted to those participating in the monthly Storytelling to compensate for the later date, and the Storytelling closes

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

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Not until you surrender!

[Someone's shouting back. Good. A live opponent. This is who they're after, what they really should be focusing on. The automatons, the metal constructs that fire on them - they're just distractions. Mindless things that can be taken out just the same as anything else.]

[It's the thinking people that are dangerous, that need to be watched closely.]

[Someone's landed on top of one of the units - someone shod in armor almost eerily similar to his own. What the hell...?]

Nice gear.

Better than yours. What, are you supposed to look like a highway?

[There aren't paved roads here. The only 'roads' there are are the paths they've trod through safely, again and again and again. Why does it come so easily to him?]

Better run back to your pals before my buddy here riddles you full of holes.

Or I do.

At least I'm not a beacon.

[The blue stands out. The retort comes easily, even if he can't wholly understand why. What the hell is a highway? He's not...he's not painted like anything.]

Yeah? You got any aim to match that mouth?

[That derision, too, comes easily - that scorn at the idea that this guy could hit anything with his weapon. But he has it in his hands. Shouldn't he be trained in it? Why wouldn't he be a good enough shot to use it?]

[He taps the war machine on its head.] Stand down a second, bud.

[It complies, winding down and creaking audibly. Too long without use, too much moisture. Might not last much longer. He'll have to enlist some help to move it higher up, probably.]

You want me to show you? But, aw man, if I put one between the eyes, then I can't gloat about it to you. Decisions, decisions!

Let me save you some time.

[His rifle snaps up and he fires, shooting for the machine's head - that, or Church's legs. Take them both down where they're weakest, and send them to the ground, where they'll be easier to dispatch.]

[That's the theory, anyway. He's not as good a shot as he usually is.]

[It's a fairly telegraphed move, and if he was smart, he would've kept to his sniper perch and let the machine do its thing. Why did he feel so compelled to come give it a personal touch? What did this guy do?

Beyond 'something reprehensible' and 'something he needs punished for', obviously.

He ducks behind the automaton's head, and even takes it a step further, sliding down its back and landing heavy behind its legs. More cover, unless his metal brother falls. Church takes a moment to switch off, stowing the rifle across his back and retrieving his pistol. Takes a breath, two, (he doesn't? need to breathe?), then pokes out and takes three shots in quick succession before ducking back again behind a rusty leg.]

[Shit. What's wrong with him? He was the best shot in his squad - ]

[He doesn't get any time to pursue the thought, and the fact that it doesn't make any sense whatsoever, because he's never had a squad, never had a team, other than the group that he came with, on boats, from across the sea. He's being fired upon again, and not with sniper rounds. Something close range.]

[The shielding he doesn't realize he has manages to swallow two of them in stuttering pulses of gold light. The third punches through one shoulder and lights up Wash's H.U.D. with a flurrying of static-torn messages and red-tinted warnings. More importantly, it lights up his nerves in a sparking white-hot net of pain extending from the point of impact.]

Fuck - !

[Get down. He needs to get down and find cover, fast - find water - find anything - ]

[Dive behind the nearest tree in a clumsy roll that he doesn't manage to finish when his muscles tense and scream in protest thanks to the shard of lead buried in the meat of his fucking shoulder. Probably lodged into something important. Joints. Tendons. Muscles.]

[He needs to find water. Fast.]

[That's a hit, then. At least one of them landed, and it hurt. But it's not a killshot. Means movement. Means--

The motherfucker's going to crawl back to the water. And if he manages that, then that's as far as Church can track him. Sure, a distance shot with the rifle could still do the job, but that close to enemy territory might make him a prime target. He's got to finish it now.

He gives the machine a quiet order.] Patrol.

[The interloper can't have gotten too far, but he can't really risk getting out in the open. Guy's not a great shot, but even a lucky hit can be devastating. The war unit moving means he has to find cover elsewhere, but the sound of the lumbering thing moving should be a distraction. Stay close to the rocks, to the land that is his home. Search for a shot.

Church has to hand it to the guy, he wasn't wrong about the coloring. Light blue stands out against everything but the midday sky, whereas the darker shades and exotic yellow helps to blend in.

He might not be much for deliberate hunting, but now he's got a wounded animal to track. The enemy will not escape.

(There's no escape. End of the line. Something...final, between them, seems to stir up behind his visor. Why do they look alike? Why is he here? Did any of them wonder why they were where they were?)]

[Shit. Shit. Shit. He thinks he's bleeding. He - yeah, no, he's definitely bleeding. Hemorrhaging into the undersuit that he's only just now realized he has, because he wasn't consciously aware of how many moving pieces there were to this apparel until just now. There's a warped part of the shoulder plating where the bullet entered, but the whole of the area feels like it's on fire.]

[Fitting.]

[It's his right shoulder. He didn't realize it, didn't think twice about it, but he's...left-handed, isn't he? That's the hand that feels best, feels easiest.]

[So he snaps the rifle to his back with a grimace as the muscles pull, agonizingly, and then unclips the pistol from the magnetic strip at his thigh. Fewer rounds, fewer hits, but he can shoot it off one-handed without fucking up anything else.]

[Trouble is, he can't move as quietly like this. His breathing is tighter, more labored. He doesn't know his position. He doesn't know where the nearest water source is.]

[Pick a direction. Go.]

[It's impossible to move quietly at all, it turns out. Armor makes a very distinctive sound, no matter what surface it's on.]

[What it means, consequently, is that he can hear Church coming to get him. A vantage point on the rocks might've given him the sight advantage, but also left him in a position to likewise get shot at again. Better to track him down himself. Even though he's not much of a tracker. Right? Don't want to lose him in the underbrush, between the trees, and if he gets too far away, a sniper rifle won't do him any good with nothing to aim at.

So. Follow the sounds. Tramping through. Listen for heightened breath.

And be a mouthy asshole while doing it, because some things you can't just mindfuck away.]

I don't know who you are. [He means it as who you THINK you are, but it comes out...that way, and it feels...it feels. It twists something in him, and it only makes him more frustrated to not know why this guy makes him so angry-excited-scared.] But you're not taking this island, jackass. You're not taking me.

[He's in close pursuit. And then he starts talking, which is honestly...preferable. Means his position is going to be easier to track.]

[Stay quiet. Some instinct, some training he doesn't remember he has, beseeches him not to answer back. Use the voice to triangulate his enemy's position.]

[This might be his only chance to take him out. Close range, where he can't use a sniper rifle to pin Wash down from a distance or, worse, send one well-placed round into his skull. Close range, where Wash can't possibly miss. His shoulder still hurts, but he can fight with one hand. He has a gun. They both have guns, but he - ]

[He always ranked low in C.Q.C.]

[That...no. That doesn't feel right. That doesn't align with everything else. It's an invasive thought. And he's not going to have any of it.]

[Wash draws his hand, the one gripping the gun, up to his chest. He'll likely only have one shot at this.]

[Stay stock-still, and wait for the enemy to come to him.]

[The sounds he was tracking seem to have stopped. He can still hear the war unit stomping away in its patrol, but the only other armored footsteps he hears are his own.

Stupid, prideful, dangerous thing he did, going after the guy like that. Shoulda stayed in the mountain, on his perch, and watched him run.]

Bet that wound stings like a bitch. [He's still talking, of course, but his steps are more careful, peering around for any sign of movement or an out of place glint.] Bet you wish your water was here with you now. Always falling back on the fucking water for everything. Why don't you do something for yourself for once?

[Closer. Closer.]

[He's got one shot. He has to make this count. He's got - yeah, it stings like a bitch, all right - a bullet in his shoulder and that is not a good place to get shot. Not that there's a good place to get shot. How does he know how it feels to get shot? Why does this feel familiar? How can he work through the pain like he's done this before?]

[The questions are distractions. He shakes them away. Counts, slowly, takes note of the steady advance.]

[Church is about five feet away from Wash's current hiding place before he decides he's not going to get a better window.]

[He erupts from his hiding spot with several loud, concussive bangs of him emptying his mag in Church's rough direction.]

Fuck-!

[There's no room to react, just raises his arms and ducks a little, like a kid trying not to get hit by a water balloon.

One scrapes, makes a divot along his arm. One pings against his chest armor and lodges there like a souvenir. One gets him in the gut.

He reels, because it hurts, it hurts like a son of a bitch, and he doubles over, hands to the wound. A better shot and he let his own fucking hubris get the better of him in the end. Of course. Of course it would end this way.]

Son of a... [He tentatively pulls a hand away. No blood. Both hands. No blood. A trail of semi-viscous fluid seeps out, and a blinking notification on his HUD informs him of the injury, but it...doesn't seem to be killing him. Oh, he might be feeling that later, will still want to get that patched up, and maybe whatever he's leaking is still, y'know, vital, but he doesn't seem about to bleed out.

He laughs, something shaky, just this side of unhinged. That's right. That's right, isn't it, he's more like the war units than some of his fellow islanders. An automaton, but one that...doesn't follow orders. He's never followed orders. He's special. (Is he? Why does he think that? Why is the word he thinks of when he looks at this faceless guy bullshit?)

He's still got bullets, but everything feels like it's tilted. Something's not right, and he doesn't know what, and Church lunges, throwing himself bodily at the invader.]

I'm gonna burn you to the ground!

[In a haze of blinding white. That feels right.]

[He hits him dead-on, a shot to the abdomen. And that should be the end of it. He'll bleed out slow, but he'll bleed out, and that'll be the end of it.]

[But he's not bleeding at all. He's...still standing, holding at his middle and the fluid leaking out of it that isn't blood and it should beblood so why isn't it blood?]

[He's left with the horrible feeling that he should know the answer to this. That it's not really that complicated. That it's just outside his grasp, and if he concentrates he'll know that this man isn't - he's not who he thinks he is - he's - ]

[He's charging at Wash dead-on.]

[The gun is slack in Wash's grip, shock momentarily seizing him by the senses and trapping him in a state of frozen disbelief. He doesn't see it coming.]

[He cries out, sharp and involuntary, when Church crashes into him and brings him with a resounding thud to the ground, jostling his injury and lighting up his arm in a river of fire. His finger compulsively tightens on the trigger of his sidearm, sending the last remaining rounds shooting uselessly into the surrounding undergrowth.]

[It's satisfying. More satisfying than a bullet through the skull from a distance. He doesn't try to do these things up close and personal, but this feels good. It bubbles up inside him unbidden, and he always was terrible at masking his emotions. Revulsion-terror-resignation-elation why are these all mixing together? The sparks he feels might be literal from something in his innards, but the sparks going off in his brain are all related to this.

Church shoves a hand against the shoulder wound, grinding his palm down, and his other arm braces across Wash's chest. Why are his memories spinning away from him? Why does he think of a key?]

We're not the same. [Hissed out, helmets nearly bumping. They look so much alike, but one bleeds, the other doesn't. One belongs to the water, the other doesn't.] We're not related, and we're not friends, and I don't know where you got this fancy suit, but you probably stole it. Well, you're not stealing this island. You're not stealing any more lives, you got that?

[He opens his mouth, trying to answer, trying to put words to the frantic throb of thoughts in his brain why is this familiar why does this feel wrong why does this feel right and he doesn't understand why some small, compartmentalized part of himself reverberates with a pulse of something that takes him a minute to recognize as relief.]

[Then there's a hand digging at the place where the bullet entered his shoulder, and Wash's thoughts short out against the white noise of incandescent agony lighting up from the arm outwards.]

[The words crack through the thick, pained slog that's become of his thoughts. We're not friends - you probably stole it - you're not stealing any more lives - ]

[He has one hand free. Fight. Get out. Live. He's always managed to live. He was never - he was too good at surviving. It was his one quality. Even when everyone else died, he could never quite manage it.]

[He's trying to push back against the armored weight yoked over him, but he has no leverage. He has no distance from the helmet that's almost, but not quite, a mirror to his, so close that the visors may as well be locked.]

[There's a word trapped behind his tongue, springing unbidden from some dense, thorny part of his memory that he can't seem to recover - ]

O - Omega - ?

[Whatever's running through his veins (or whatever works as veins in him) runs cold. There's a moment, a long and unguarded moment, where the world seems to just stop.

Omega? Omega. He knows that name. He knows omegabetaetaiotagammathetadeltasigma why who why how what does he remember why doesn't he remember what does Wash have to do with it?

They're all dead, his mind supplies. Here? Did they die here? Did he bury them, build markers, did the water kill them, did this enemy kill them, yes, that was it, that's what this is. Brothers and sisters like him and they're dead and he is to blame.

Something's wrong. He's missing something here. Those of the water haven't come here before now. When did this happen? Were they robots like Church? Why are all their names so strange?

Is he missing someone? He lets up the pressure, sits back. Stunned. He's missing someone.]

Delta.

[He supplies the name quietly. He doesn't know what it means. If it means anything, especially not to this guy bleeding on the ground. His voice makes the syllables comes easily even though it seems, at the same time, foreign. But Delta. He knows Delta. As he knows Omega. He's sure of this. These are people he knows.

Knew?]

[Delta.]

[He...remembers something. He doesn't - is this a call and response? How do they know what to say to each other? Do they...know each other?]

[No. No, no, no, no, no that's not how this works. He came on a ship across the sea. He came on a ship across the sea and they were supposed to purge the loyalists once and for all. He came on a ship across the sea and the Water took them here so why, god why does he have a memory of a conversation where he looked at someone that he swears that he knew, in blueish armor and a golden visor, dropping his head and muttering: ...Maybe we need some kinda safeword.]

[His arm hurts.]

Let go.

[If this is a window, if this is a chance to get out - shouldn't he take it?]

[Take advantage?]

Let me go.

You killed them.

[It's almost a question. Halfway to shock. He's sure but he's not sure. How can he be sure and yet not sure at the same time if it's about people he cares about?]

You killed them!

[More conviction. Maybe it wasn't this guy. Maybe he had nothing to do with it. (He does he does he does.) His people still came all the same. Hunting, pursuing, and all they wanted was a peaceful life in the canyon. The...the valley. The mountains. Island. That.

But he looks at Wash, and the feeling lingers. Change, he feels. Change, and death. That's what the water brings, isn't it? So why does it feel more complicated than that? Why is he hesitating to dispatch of an enemy?

omegabetaetaiotagammathetadeltasigma he knows them he knew them and they're dead these are facts these are facts and this man is responsible this is a fact

He still has bullets, and his pistol comes back around and presses to Wash's visor with a hint of a quaver.]

You killed them all, you fucking animal!

[Pulls the trigger. Pulls it again. Again and again, unloading into the face that isn't a face, until it clicks empty.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Somewhere in the soup of his mind that feels like it's electrified static, he thinks zeta and distantly wonders if maybe that's who he was forgetting.]

Edited 2019-08-23 09:25 (UTC)

No, no, I didn't -

[He doesn't get the chance to finish, to draw the parallel to its conclusion. What does he mean? He didn't kill - no. He has. He's a soldier. He kills people. He knows he has. He just doesn't know who he's supposed to be protesting that he didn't kill.]

[And then there's a muzzle jammed up against his visor.]

[In the split seconds before he pulls trigger, Wash feels himself think, distantly, with stunning clarity, that he's pretty sure he deserves this.]

[He just doesn't know what he did to warrant it.]

[Then Church empties the gun into Wash's fucking face, and leaves nothing but a cratered indentation that used to be a helmet, smoking slightly as his hands lie slack on the ground.]

[It's near instantaneous. No one can survive a round point-blank to the face.]

[He knows exactly what hit him.]

[There's really nothing...left, all that force in a small space. There's a spare thought, a strand blowing in a howling wind, that maybe he should've taken the helmet off first. To see who was under there. Like that might have sparked something.

But far too late for that now.

He knows, by instinct, that he has to move. That he's already made too many stupid fucking mistakes today because of this guy, that sitting here with tunnel vision waiting for the shakes to pass makes him vulnerable.

When he finally lowers the gun, another absurd thought passes by. That he should find some Water and leave him there. It won't revive him, of course, and he doesn't deserve the kindness, so why does he think to even do it?

Stand up. Stand up. Get the fuck up.

When he moves, it's just a shell, a body moving because it has to. His mind is far away when his feet go, when a walk turns into a run, when his fingers find familiar purchase to climb up, and up and up and up, because this should make him feel better, right? Right? Up and away and on familiar ground, so why does it feel so unfamiliar and hostile all of a sudden? When he at last makes it to whatever perch his instincts took him to for safety is when he all but collapses. He still has a hole to patch that burns as though he actually had skin and muscle and blood and nerves. But for now, he'll lay bathing in the sun, feeling his internal temperature tick slowly higher, and try to remember what existing feels like.

Because he's pretty sure he's forgotten that, too.]

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August Event: The City is at War

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cw: gun violence (to the facial region)

cw: character death

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