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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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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