psl;

[pridecroweth]

jamjar au;


monster attacks, low resources, no revival mechanics ingame but no power nerfing either.


weapons are available but hard to find. monsters are 'corrupted' but their bites don't transfer it. they are however v slow to heal.


set in a super fancy old museum with active historical displays. however, there's been lots of damage to the building/displays, few are 100 percent intact. the pcs have set up in the basement where the valuable archives were kept bc there's an actual vault.


power has been jury-rigged by pcs (idk, maybe tony stark is wandering around). water and food need to be scavenged for and rationed. maybe 30-40 pcs at present?

sam checks in with them regularly but has a 'hide-out' that's actually an old security/control room that overlooks one of the larger display rooms.

Comments

[hallowing]

[ He reaches out, and takes the magazine. It disappears in his hands like a magic trick. Just in case. If the guy's that far gone that it seemed like a good idea, then Cy reckons it's a better one to get it even further away.

Then: ]

What isn't making sense? People are people, even these weirdos.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Something in Carver's brain refuses to connect what he sees to anything real. This is a trick, he tells himself. You've lost your marbles and you deserve whatever test the commander decides you're due for that foolishness.

In the meantime, a handsome stranger's doing magic tricks with his ammunition.

So, that's fun. Carver rests his head on his knees and watches the other man's hands. ]

They don't know the rules. They do stupid shit like it won't hurt them.

[hallowing]

So?

[ It's said with a touch of the cavalier — head cocked faintly, inquiring. His hands are open, spread, palm-up. He has no scars, but maybe that's no surprise given that Carver shot him not too long ago. ]

People get hurt. They learn or die. You try to pound people into a mold, the only thing you get is flat people.

[ Ha, he's hilarious. ]

I know, I know. Rah, rah, military uniformity, rah. But the world doesn't function like the military. It shouldn't — because if everyone's a soldier, what's the point? Who're you meant to protect then? It just means everyone's a target.

[ There's a bit of a shrug. ]

I never get sick of people because for all the differences and similarities you run into, you never quite meet the same person twice.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver just shakes his head, disappointment curdling in his chest. He should've known, he thinks. Because nobody gets it. Maybe just the ghosts and this isn't one of his. Nobody understands that it stops being a choice and turns into an inevitability and they crossed that line a long time ago. And once it gets there, it's like fighting against gravity. You don't get anything for trying except exhausted and probably dead. ]

Everyone's a target. Everyone's a fighter.

[ This he knows. This he had to learn at cost. ]

I'm not crazy for knowing that.

[hallowing]

[ He gives the man a sidelong look, and then there's another twitch of those long fingers, producing a cigarette and a lighter almost from nothing. ]

I mean, sure. In theory everyone's either something or not. Everyone's a Bluey fan or not. Everyone's a woman or not. Soldier or target, fine.

[ He will never know the name of the girl on Aikelyk. Brave, fleet-footed. She died horribly, but she fought. He'd believed then — naively — that she would be the last person he'd ever kill. He'd wanted so desperately for her to be the last person he'd ever kill. Maybe she was, until Abbrenon. ]

Miserable fucking way to live, though. Locks you in a box. 'Fighter'. Okay, what are you fighting? People? Emus? Cancer? Yourself? Delusions, ghosts, trauma, a fucking rap battle? The word means too many things, and in that immensity it means nothing at all.

[ He lights the cigarette, and uncoils slightly on the first drag, stretching one bare foot out in front of him. ]

What did you want to be, before you became what you are?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ The words echo, following the smooth cadence of a man who probably does believe he's talking sense. Carver rests his head against his knees and watches the stranger's hands. Another magic trick blooms. There's a cigarette there, a lighter. Held with strange grace.

Carver doesn't smoke much. Sometimes, he had cigarettes put out on him as a test. But those weren't much of anything. Most of the scars have faded now. He and the commander laughed about it after. How easy it was. ]

Doesn't matter what I wanted. That's dead.

[ He'd wanted to be a librarian, once. He's never told anyone. ]

[hallowing]

I was a farmer.

[ It's conversant. Pleasant, all things considered. ]

There are times I miss that.

[fortitudosalutis]

Oh.

[ Carver watches him. Thinks about all the farmers he's killed. ]

Why'd you stop?

[hallowing]

[ He takes a long drag off the cigarette, holding it out for the guy to take or decline as he prefers. A slow exhale becomes a smoke ring, just because he can. ]

I became a slave.

[ He says that dismissively. Like a footnote. Just one quiet little underpinning in a long, long life. It's not quite the truth. It's also not quite a lie. But it's sanitized in a way that's meant to evoke a less specific sort of pity. Slaves still have some amount of free will, at the end of the day — even if it's spent surviving. ]

Didn't stick.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ It happens, Carver doesn't say. Which is true but not especially useful. This man already knows. Carver knows liars. Was trained to suss them out, by trickery or force. Whatever God decided. He doesn't think this man's lying right now.

Funny, that.

Carver just watches him for a moment. He takes a shaky breath, then exhales. And he takes the cigarette, sitting up just long enough to take a drag. It burns down into his lungs.

It's something to focus on, at least.

He passes it back. ]

I think I've lost my mind, [ he explains, almost conversationally. Lost, past-tense, it's already happened. ]

[hallowing]

Easy thing to lose.

[ It's said with a measure of agreeability. Hasn't he been crazy, too? ]

The good news is, if you're lucid enough to recognize that, you can probably do something about it.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver shrugs at that. Easy to lose, the other man says, like this is a regular conversation. Maybe it is.

It's easy to die, too. Life's not all that precious now, if it ever was. ]

Hasn't been going well, [ he points out softly. He's not so far gone he's lost that. ]

[hallowing]

Dude, you're living in a fucking flop house with a gun filling all your social needs. Of course it hasn't been going well. Dumbass.

[ 'I've tried nothing and I'm all out of ideas!' energy over here. ]

Newsflash, asshole, humans benefit from having a tribe. And I know you're gonna go all puppydog eyes on me and boohoo about how everyone in your little coterie of weirdos is dead or at least not here, or whatever other sob story that's got your dick in a vice. Don't get me wrong, that sucks. But you aren't doing yourself any favours, either.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Sam tried to bring him back, didn’t he? That didn’t go so well. It couldn’t have, Carver tells himself. This is how the world turns. He’s tired of fighting other people on the truth. ]

Why’re you out here?

[hallowing]

Believe it or not, looking for a Starbucks.

[ Hard to tell if he means that seriously or not. There's a twitch of his fingers where he's holding the cigarette and then: ]

I can teleport, so, you know. Distance ain't no thing if I ain't got that swing.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ More noise. Whether it’s true or not seems beside the point. Maybe it’s true from some angles, or all, or none. The possibilities blur.

Carver rests his head on his knees. He wonders what the fuck he’s supposed to say to that. ]

Why’re you still hanging around, then?

[hallowing]

Eh.

[ He ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, fingers hinging on the trap muscle as he stretches a bit. ]

If you live a dozen millennia, you'll hang around places just for the hell of it, too.

[fortitudosalutis]

I don’t want to live that long.

[ He can already picture it stretching out empty before him. An unbroken, brutal landscape.

Carver closes his eyes. He’s so goddamn tired. ]

But I think I’m dead anyway, [ he adds conversationally. ] What’s your name?

[hallowing]

Brother, that's the sanest thing you've said so far. Trust me when I say, immortality ain't a cakewalk.

[ It Sucks, Actually. ]

You can call me Cy.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ That'd fit, wouldn't it? Having to see it all stretch out like that. Endless time. Nothing but repetition.

He shifts a little. Digging his nails into his knee. ]

I'm Carver.

[ He doesn't quite know what to do here. Everything still feels a little distant from him. Unmoored. ]

[hallowing]

What, you do pumpkins pro bono?

[ Ha, ha, get it? ]

I don't do that last name hoo-ah shit. You got a first name floating around in there or am I just gonna religiously call you 'Bob' until the heat death of the universe?

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver cracks an eye, watching Cy. It could be short for something. Could be an outright lie. Does it matter, either way? ]

Nobody uses it anymore.

[ Not even inside his own head. ]

[hallowing]

Well, slap my ass and call me Odysseus.

[ 'Nobody'. Maybe you had to be there. ]

I'll tell you my original name if you tell me your first.

[fortitudosalutis]

[ Carver lifts an eyebrow. Later, he'll think it's funny that this was the thing that pushed through the fog, even if only for a moment. ]

Okay, Nobody. It was Brandon.

[hallowing]

What's with the past tense here, you giant theatrical baby? Unless you've filed your government paperwork like a good boy, pretty sure it's still Brandon, Brandon.

[ Okay but actually he's delighted that the dude caught his reference, because Cy is in fact a giant fucking nerd. ]

Mine was Auhle. And before you ask — yes I did indeed do my paperwork. Turns out paper isn't designed to last ten thousand years.