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Post by Hiram on Sept 10, 2014 4:56:50 GMT -5
The Twilight.
He rocked back and forth.
On his chair, he rocked back and forth.
With eyes cast outward upon the distant horizon, he simply sat in deep contemplation as the thoughts of actions and the actions of thoughts filled his mind.
"Two of the children have been taken." they said. The congregation all gathered around slowly as they watched and waited for the Father's guidance in regards to the matter. Some were in tears, others angered, and others simply mustered whatever concern, small or great, was found in them to rouse a reaction within themselves for the sake of the cause.
Words simply could not express the sorrow, the anger, the anguish he felt in those very moments as he received that news and yet outwardly, he sat not the least bit dismayed. Perhaps he had to maintain such a facade for their sake; after all, if they saw him panicked, they would therefore regard it as weak and weakness was a very costly mistake in this world.
"Brothers," He spoke lowly, "Don't be troubled," His voice grew louder as he addressed the masses in front of him, "There are those in this world who are... lost and in need of our guidance. Like sheep needing the hand of a shepherd, they wander this lost and dying world confused and agonized but we, we who are able to see clearly, we who have been found, we know the way and the way is Change." The crowd before him all clung in their enthrallment to his every word,
"Brothers and sisters, we must find the man whose committed this act against us." His eyes didn't diverge from the horizon, nor did his eyes widen or narrow, his brow did not furrow, and when he spoke, he spoke quite plainly, "We must find the man who threw in his lot to commit crime against our family! We must find him, and we must bring about the Change within him."
Hiram stood from his place there and set a hand upon his most trusted follower, a man named Ethan who was considerably taller than he, bulkier; an Industria of the most combative nature. Cold dead eyes pierced through Ethan's eyes casting an overwhelming shadow of the utmost discomfort within him; they were filled with something entirely otherworldly and almost god-like. He turned to the crowd once more.
"For even the most heinous deserve our mercy after the punishment's been delivered. He will see the light, and we will see to it that his eyes open and his heart accepts the Change."
The crowd cheered.
Their applaud, as though heralding the distinction of action, sparked the weapons of war to be grasped and they each went their way, one after another, quickened to bring bring the light of Change into the heart of the one who has been taking the children of their own.
They will find him;
He will accept Change or he will die.
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Post by Morgan on Sept 11, 2014 20:25:42 GMT -5
Morgan hadn't the time to regret separating himself from Akemi during their departure from the tower of Yggdrasil, but he had something to do. Someone to find. And if he was right, that someone couldn't have gone far. It would be easier if he'd only known the guy's name. Then he could just call him, attract his attention that way. Straight up calling him 'Piper' would be awfully ignorant if it turned out that wasn't what he went by.
He stopped at an intersection and looked to either side. There had only been a few minutes between the Piper leaving, and Morgan and Akemi following suit, so the boy was either still carrying the jacket, or wearing it, either of which should have been noticeable if he were in range. A passing thought struck him that he'd fare better if he took the high ground, but the idea died out as quickly as it'd shown up. There were no buildings short enough for him to climb up and up, and he couldn't waste time taking stairs even if they were fire escapes on the outside.
Ugggghhhhhhh. The blond ran his fingers through his hair and ruffled it about. Standing around thinking of this didn't help at all, it only slowed him down, but what was he supposed to do? His skills worked a lot better if he knew where the Point B was for him to head to. Fixed places, he could do, moving people were another story.
Moving animals, though?
Ah, if one thing led to the other, that would work just as well! The blond would just have to follow the Piper's familiars at ground level. The boy would need to stop somewhere to feed his friends, yeah?
He caught sight of one from the corner of his eye, and he followed after it before it could escape his sight. It was a gamble; there was no telling if the boy was controlling his friends or not, and the rat could just be any random one. He couldn't think of it as failure, but as delayed success!
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Post by Prince Piper on Sept 13, 2014 2:03:08 GMT -5
Word Count: 1414 Sanity: 70& Daybreak had come a lot sooner than he had expected it to. What would have been a merry day full of food acquisition and marching his rats around for a public display of all the grandeur one would expect from the Piper himself had turned into a nightmarish afternoon of amalgamated emotions. Fear of persecution had been the one factor preventing him from adhering to his own set of rules for quite some time. There was fading into the background out of necessity and there was doing it out of fear. If he was going to become the real Pied Piper of Miracle, it wouldn't do to remained holed up in the sewers for the rest of eternity. Some nights he would sit bathed in weak candlelight and stare into the shattered glass of a long-abandoned wall mirror. It was the type that a young lady might prance around in front of, bend over a little to check how an outfit curved with her body; Prince prized it for how it kept him in touch with reality. He could see the person he had become, the place he had been forced to call home, the friends that he had chosen out of a need to feel real, purposed, wanted. Living as a character became a subconscious state of mind that overtook the other, more colorful and wild than the sheltered child who only made connections with phantom beings that never responded to him.
Sometimes, gazing into that mirror, Prince would talk to himself as if he were another person entirely. The other person replied, just as a person would, and it would take a moment of silence to spark any sort of recognition. A lull in their involved conversation. Discussing something that mattered according to the same perverse logic that told him it was normal. And then, like the candle's wick had reached its end, darkness, and Prince was rendered alone and confused. His mind had played a trick on him, and not the kind of trick the light played on shadows. It was a true trick. He believed that the people he spoke to were entirely real, even if they were gone in a flicker. He could explain away their infrequency and the nonsensical way they looked at him in that moment they appear, but when the light went out and had returned to reality, he felt sick. Thoughts like, "How am I supposed to handle something like this?" played through his mind, when in those moments of phantom visitors everything that popped into his head seemed perfectly right, even the thoughts he knew to be crazy when he thought about them later. The clarity made living normally unbearable. Prince often wished that world he slipped into, with its lack of sense, were the one he always lived in, so he didn't have to bear those moments of detachment.
The mirror remained him that he was not cured. Something about this world could keep his disorder at bay; perhaps it was the nonsensical nature of everything that made concepts nonsensical in a normal world comparatively mundane. And conquering it day by day was a daunting task that required him to face people. He had to remember that, as the Piper, he could do those things. The Piper had no fear of others. He manipulated them to do his bidding with music and mice. The Piper had no disorders to deal with, no shadow thoughts to tell 'No, you aren't real, go away.' The Piper could not speak, but the things he would say if he could... witty quips and... explanations for his actions. Prince could barely fathom some of the things he had done since the world ended, but the Piper had the mental state for it. He could twist a dictionary to fit his purposes and everyone would like him after it was all through. The children loved the Piper and that was why they left with him. Prince couldn't explain away the children he had killed trying to make that fallacy a truth, but maybe some merciful soul would understand his intentions were in the right place. Now the whole city was against him. People weren't to be trusted. People were evil. They had been waiting for him to come out of his sewer so they could lock him away for being different. I can't help that I am unwell! he wanted to scream at the world, but no one could hear him and no one would listen even if they could.
Prince clutched the jacket to his face and wiped his wet eyes against it, relishing the sensation of clean fabric against his skin. He was so tired of these rags and the feeling of scurrying feet dominating his body. The rats treated him like their property and he supposed that was normal, since they were friends. But sometimes... a solitary moment apart from them, without feeling alone. He needed their company constantly to ensure there would be company at all. Prince heard the way that they thought. When something lost its value, they moved on. As long as Prince could provide them with what they wanted, they would act in his best interests. But a person had given him exactly what he was looking for and asked for nothing in return. A real person. Who wore clothing and walked around. A person who, unlike other people, Prince found himself actively trying to find himself in the presence of. So, it wasn't really 'finding himself there' Oh, hello there runner guy, fancy seeing you through this crack in an abandoned box factory. And even then he found himself scurrying off someplace else once he had some hint that the guy had actually seen him. But now, contact, on one of his few days out and about with the wretched 'people'. He would hate him, if he knew him. He was just too nice or gullible, giving a stranger fruit. What if he knew how he had watched him or what he had done to those three little girls? He would hate him, like everyone else.
So it was uncanny to have been discovered by him, hiding away behind the counter of a half-gutted bakery, trying to reclaim himself and make his next decision. It was natural, though, to react as he did. The rat that had given him away climbed up the counter and retreated to a hole in the wall, its sin fulfilled. Prince clutched the jacket close to him and backed up against the wall, staring at the blonde haired man in front of him. It was a good thing he couldn't talk, so he had an excuse for choosing silence over actually connecting with another human being. The girl had been troublesome. This man was troublesome too, but Prince didn't want him to be. He stared with red eyes at Morgan, waiting for something to happen. Why was he here? What did he want? Was he back for the jacket, for the fruit? The rats scattered when Prince alerted him of the man's present, leaving behind a pile of half-eaten fruit carcasses. Prince asked them for a piece but they did not listen, especially when they were eating. When they were hungry, they spoke. As soon as their needs were met, silence. And Prince had to expect it as a good deed he had done, no matter the growling of his stomach or ribs pressed against taut skin.
He held out the jacket and made a few cautious steps, the sudden urge to be closer to the man winning out over his fear. And maybe things would be okay, since he held the jacket out first. If that was what he was here for, he would be kind. People could be kind. This one was always looking up and being happy, even when he was alone. He couldn't stay angry. A million voices told him what to do. The instincts of rodentia told him to run and never look back, crawl into his hole and vow to forsake the light of day forevermore. Something kept him planted. A warmth. I'm sorry, he channeled, betraying his better judgment to remain quiet and wait for the storm to pass. It smelled nice," he thought at Morgan with an attempt at a smile that made him look like crazed, terrified squirrel. It wasn't an excuse but people could bury all sorts of hatchets with humor. At least, he would try.
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Post by Morgan on Sept 13, 2014 11:20:25 GMT -5
Ah, this was awkward. Morgan hadn't expected his hunch to be correct so soon, but he was still glad for it, as the rat led him to an abandoned bakery and revealed through its action that the Piper was there as well, hiding behind the counter.
Morgan could swear he saw the tension and fear shooting through the other man's limbs as he held the jacket closer to himself, like he needed the clothing to guard him as he pressed himself closer to the wall. He put distance between them both. The blond noted that and made no further movements. He'd let the Piper come close when he was comfortable enough to. In the meanwhile, he looked around at the half-eaten fruit littering the floor of the bakery. He'd been right in his assumption. The Piper had chosen to feed his friends, but... there were no exposed fruit cores like the kind a human would leave. Did the young man take anything for himself?
He looked up at the sound of hesitantly approaching steps. The Piper held the jacket before him, offering it first.
I'm sorry, Morgan heard. It smelled nice. The Piper attempted to smile, but his terror fenced in whatever joy could have ever been in the expression. He expected violence in retribution for his actions and this was the buffer he put out to avoid that. It was no way to live.
Morgan got closer and took the jacket in hand, then unzipped it and draped it over the Piper's shoulders.
"You don't have to say sorry," he said. "I wanted to tell you that you could keep the jacket for yourself. It's fine." He matched his own genuine smile to Piper's terrified one. "It's fine," he said again, "what matters is whether or not you're okay. Did you get to eat anything before I got here?"
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Post by Prince Piper on Sept 13, 2014 19:34:24 GMT -5
Word Count: 998 Sanity: 80% Fighting the urge to press himself back up against the bakery wall, Prince braced himself for anything. His hands trembled as they clutched at the jacket, the knuckles whiter against the purple bruising gained from crawling and scraping and stumbling. There was no telling what would happen now. No one would hear Prince if this man's revenge came in the form of a brutal beating or maybe he would take him somewhere more private and punish him for his sins, just like he had done to those children that refused to play into his fairy tale. Back then, he could convince himself that his journey to become the Pied Piper warranted casualties. This was a hellish existence and bad things happened to everyone, no matter what they felt they deserved. Children died all the time, starving in the streets at the hands of a cruel Goddess who had ripped them away from their children. The foster families were few and far between and a child had to be lucky to find out, let alone find a good one that didn't sell out its faux-offspring like wares to greedy labor-mongers. Most children ended up toiling away in the basement of some building, their talents squeezed from them until they were but a husk. Prince had convinced him what he was doing to these children, taking them for a good purpose that could be beneficial to them, was the right thing to do. And if it didn't cut out for them, death was a better option than wandering onto the doorstep of a nefarious Miracle opportunist looking to make a quick buck off the energy of young people.
But he knew he had done wrong. He deserved to be kidnapped and beaten or used for a sick purpose befitting of a kidnapper. For all he knew, the people hunting him down might think he had molested them before he killed them; it didn't matter what he had done because the children were now gone. If the label fit, they would stick it to them, and it would only be right to lay down in front of them and take his punishment. That was the way of things in the world of the people. Everything was fair, even if it didn't feel like it. Prince shivered as he neared ever closer, preparing himself for the burning sear of a slap across the face, a mere taste of his punishment to come. Closer he crept, probably fearful of the rat child. He couldn't have been more vulnerable, he wanted to tell him he meant no harm, but more words could only cut deeper. He would stay silent until the man realized he was just a weak thing incapable of retaliation, an easy catch. The man took the jacket and he heard him unzip it, adorning himself with the prize of his find before making the culprit pay for his misdeeds. Prince wasn't expecting the weight of the jacket around his shoulders and when he saw the man standing very close to him... it almost gave him the courage, or the cowardice, to finally beat it.
"You don't have to say sorry," he said. "I wanted to tell you that you could keep the jacket for yourself. It's fine." He matched his own genuine smile to Piper's terrified one. "It's fine," he said again, "what matters is whether or not you're okay. Did you get to eat anything before I got here?" Piper didn't want to bring himself to look into the eyes of the blonde man. His hygiene had suffered for his life choices and the short baths he could afford himself in a basin full of rainwater did very little to assuage his stench. Why, suddenly, did he care so much about his appearance? Where was this insecurity coming from? Prince had so often felt nearly detached from himself, he was so uncaring his own body and how he was portrayed. There were no people he desired to impress and spending too much time on others usually didn't garner him any benefits anyways. Why now? Why here in the face of a man who, moments before, Prince was dead-set on believing was his judge and executioner. He opened his mouth to speak, in his stupor, and then shook his head and looked down. That was so embarrassing. He knew he couldn't talk and even if the man didn't know it, everything just seemed so... prone to humiliation. Every move, every stray look, every breath. He would die of embarrassment. The fruit lay on the ground behind the man, flies zooming around it and buzzing with the absence of the rats. It was true, Prince had not gotten anything to eat from his last acquisition, but he was certain to secure something very soon. It was none of this man's affair. It was Prince's fault he hadn't gotten himself something on the way back. The rats could be selfish when they were hungry, but that was nature. Prince was patient.
He resolved that he had to do something now, be it flee or confront this man who had given him the jacket. Very quickly, he wrapped his arms around the man's midsection, squeezed him slightly, and let go. Then he ducked, opened the man's legs just a hair, and flew between them to the other side, hopping over the fruit and sliding to the next wall. Could he just leave? There were so many feelings going through him. He wanted to stay here and run at the same time. It hurt him to consider just running out without a word but it was almost unbearable to let the man see him this way any longer. So he turned back for just a moment and gave a shameful nod, speaking to him mentally It was nice meeting you." The rat boy's figure disappeared into the shadows of the gaping door frame and out into the night air. It had been a strange day.
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Post by King on Sept 16, 2014 1:25:49 GMT -5
Fools.
Even within minds so succumbed to the darkness as that of Hiram's, the folly of mercy still runs rampant in their resolve. It would have mattered more if such things as these were of any concern to him but, as it stood, he simply heard the petty preachings of this lavishly pious and utterly stupid individual as he walked passed the crowd with more indifference given than he had hoped to give in the first place.
Their cheering in the small distance behind him only roused much more demeaning thoughts toward them as he slipped through the emptied passageways of these streets under the cover of sweet nothings. That is, until, a collision stopped his steps; something smaller than he stepping in haste before him. Yellow eyes glaring down at that child as he sought to escape from something or someone that lay within the darkness of an old and tattered building not afar off.
That sinister smile painted upon the mask; it did nothing but incite fear.
It was only then that this man, this masked man, took hold of the boy's neck with his right hand in a fierce and iron-like grasp and raised him upward so that the boy's feet left the dirt below to dangle freely in the open air.
"Your kind," He spoke normally, "Like roaches you pollute this world; to let you live would truly be a crime." The grip around the boy's neck tightened.
There would be no mercy found here.
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Post by Morgan on Sept 18, 2014 7:22:27 GMT -5
The Piper avoided his gaze, and he found that understandable. They were very close, and perhaps Morgan was staring too hard. Quick, was there a way to stare softly at someone? It would be best to avert his gaze, then, to spare the other man that discomfort.
Problem was, he couldn't help but take in the Piper's features at that point: there were traces of grime on his face, clarity known only on the spots underneath his eyes where he wiped tears away just moments before; his clothes were very old and tattered and frayed, and Morgan had to wonder if they even served as just clothes or if they needed to serve the role of everything else (blanket, pillow, basic shelter) and he quietly assumed the answer was yes; his knuckles were purple with bruises, his skin pockmarked by little cuts and scrapes (were those bite marks?) and his skin was so pale-- was it from sickness? Tiredness? Hunger? All of the above? That was truly no way to live. Also, he really smelled, but that wasn't very important. Morgan could always just stick his nose into a candle when he got home.
Morgan lowered his gaze to note more, like the sharpened length of pipe that the young man carried, but inevitably his gaze traveled back up but stopped shy of Piper's eyes. He watched intently, he really couldn't help it as Piper's lips moved. He had opened his mouth to speak (out of reflex, no doubt) but then caught himself and shook his head and looked down. It's okay, Morgan wanted to say, you can just think at me again like you did a minute ago, sheepishly adding the thought to himself that I actually kind of liked hearing that voice. It made him feel a little bit less alone. And that made him curious. If a Patientia had the power to project their thoughts into someone else's mind, could they reach in and pluck the other person's thoughts from theirs? Could they read minds?
Well, that would be a little embarrassing. Of course it depended on just how far under the 'covers' one looked, but still. The idea of that was strange and vaguely discomfiting.
The blond lost himself in his musing until he felt Piper's arms wrapping around him. !? He made a noise that matched those punctuation marks, followed by a half-muted little squeal at the sight of Piper getting on his knees and trying to open the blond's legs. !!! Don't you think you're-- And Piper escaped much in the manner of his familiars, squeezing through the space and ending up on the other side before Morgan could finish his thought.
Morgan turned around just in time to catch that single shy nod, and "It was nice meeting you." Then Piper disappeared, leaving Morgan alone with shame at the forefront of his thoughts.
O-of course he was just running away! Why did I think he was going to do anything else? Morgan rubbed at his face as if to force the blood back down and make his blushing less stunningly obvious.
His confusion died down and worry crept in to take its place. Where could Piper be going? 'Home' was the obvious answer, but home was what left him looking the way he did, as lonely as he was, and poor! It wasn't right for Morgan to let Piper go to that place knowing he could live in better conditions. Piper had to go to a real home.
He followed after Piper, wanting to call out to him and cursing himself for still not having gotten the man's name. He should have asked in that time, but-- well, he was concerned for Piper's health so perhaps that little mistake could be forgiven.
He ran out into the once-empty alleyway to find that it wasn't so empty anymore. Piper had been lifted into the air by some man, someone tall enough to hoist him up so that his feet didn't even touch the ground.
"Your kind, ... Like roaches you pollute this world; to let you live would truly be a crime."
No one's killing Piper on my watch! Morgan ran forward to stop the assailant, putting his reflexes to good use.
The man had Piper held up with his right hand. An occupied hand was no use for defense. The younger man still had a chance to counterattack, perhaps. He had weapons of his own. A pipe. Control over rats and mice. Potential swarming opportunity. Morgan at least had his trusted gauntlets.
What did the mysterious man have? Height. Strength. No identity. Obvious penchant for murder. Morgan recalled the broadcasts. Murders in the middle of the night. Was he responsible?
Agh, no time. Morgan came in from Piper's left, deftly snatched up the pvc pipe and buried it right into the masked man's underarm. Maybe some nerve damage would make him let go of his friend!
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Post by Prince Piper on Sept 18, 2014 9:54:30 GMT -5
Word Count: 874 Sanity: 80% A sharp left and down the stoop of the bakery's front door. The concrete had lived through an apocalypse with only a few cracks and missing chunks here or there. Perhaps it was true that inanimate objects were not living, but they could sure as hell survive a lot more than any human or animal. Prince recalled the earliest times that he had begun to see people, often in the form of objects and things that were not actually people to any other person but himself. Rarely was it an object that even looked remotely like the entity he saw; Raleigh, a young girl he saw frequently, most often took the place of an easy chair in the corner, one he chose not to sit in for that very reason. In fact, the more people and animals that begun to 'inhabit' the objects in his room, the less he used those objects. Prince was more than content to find himself playing the very center of his carpet with a pen and a sketchpad, drawing and murmuring to himself like any normal child was. It was the circumstances that made him abnormal. Dwelling on those old days was a difficult task, not because they reminded him of how his life had changed (for better or worse, depending on the mindset) but because it was struggle to call forth even the most basic memories. They would come, with concentration, and interestingly enough, many smells returned memories to him on their own. With ease. Almost like the world had hidden keys in all manner of scents and tastes and sensations that had the potential to unlock his mind for him.
Morgan reminded him of laundry. A laundry basket, off-white with circular orifices that serve who knew what purpose. His mother had on a very 50s dress that his father preferred she wear around the house. Like she did every Tuesday of the week, she deposited the laundry basket next to his door, to be discovered after his session of drawing and he found himself back in reality. Fresh clothes, sometimes still warm if he his reverie ended quick enough or she caught him in a lucid moment. The smell of lavender. Prince had never smelled real lavender, but it was a kind of scent one knew wouldn't be like the real thing; like fruit candy didn't taste anything like the fruit, yet was sometimes better. Morgan's version was not the same, but it was in the real of actual cleanliness, something that had become foreign to Prince in these past three years. He regarded the smell of Miracle citizens with heavy disdain so it was unusual to find himself remembering Morgan's scent wistfully, as he pulled the color up around his nose and inhaled. His eyes flickered and then shut as he let his natural instincts kick in, guiding him onward and warning him of the presence of structures like walls, buildings, stray rocks that would make him stumble. It didn't prepare him for a person, quick to appear and quicker to apprehend him.
The words were swallowed by the overwhelming urge to scream, but of course as Prince's mouth widened to let out a noise, nothing came. And if anything could, the hand that jerked out and restricted his airways would have ensured no one would hear the young boy. His eyes searched the man's features for anything telling of his identity, wondering if this were a Miracle guard who would now bring him in to King Crown himself. Or perhaps some other entity out to destroy him, for there were a few. His speech had a strange accent to it and his words hinted at a higher vendetta, against all people like Prince. There was no time to analyze his words, though, as he felt the soles of his shoes lose grip of the street below, flailing weakly to gain some semblance of stability. He tried to kick but he couldn't concentrate on the action, too busy choking as the man's grip intensified. His hands reached wildly for his pipe, just in the lining of his pants, but he couldn't quite get past his jacket to find it. His movements felt slow and detached from him and the darkness of the night swallowed his pupils whole. He could only see a narrow strip of color ahead of him, golden eyes hiding behind the man's frozen visage. What was going on? Was this the payment he was destined to receive, after all, the fate he had falsely assumed Morgan responsible for bringing about.
Just as the struggle became almost unworthy of fighting, the one person he knew had the tolerance to help him appeared. It was a quick move, Morgan sliding his sharpened pipe out of his pants and stabbing the man in the side. Whether there was any sign of injury or pain, Prince could not tell. The man's face was still as it had been the entire time. He gave one last effort flailing about, knowing that what little air he had left had to be spent now or never. His throat could not bear anymore pressure, so whatever hesitation Morgan had brought about had to provide an opening for release, if only temporary.
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Post by King on Sept 18, 2014 16:33:35 GMT -5
Such frailty, such weakness, such humanity.
Humanity, utter pathetic filth at it's best. He stared deep into the eyes of this dying child and should this child have any sense of empathy whatsoever, he perhaps wouldn't be able to overcome the feeling that the smile behind the smile was a great one filled with the uttermost glee indeed.
This child's life was ending; it made him happy to see it first hand.
Happy until...
His gaze averted slowly.
That white mask turned with the uttermost lack of haste that it seemed as though this hero's actions were taken with the lightest of regards. There it stood; a man of typical hero-esque feature with a typical hero-esque build attempting a typical hero-esque move for the sake of another and yet all along such a man as this was typically human.
Typically human and nothing more.
How pathetic. A rat coming to the aid of another rat as though such beings as this were capable of feeling such emotional and empathetic impulses to enable them to truly appreciate that which they have committed to. He thought, for a moment's moment, just how great a debt was owed to this child that such a one as this would come to save his life.
A small chuckle barely audible.
The child was released with little disregard for grace or a fanciful letting as the Masked Man simply threw him some short distance, about 2 feet, away from himself and the would-be hero and indeed this hero would have been just that if such an attack as this was capable of piercing through to fulfill it's desired purpose but, like his own humanity, it failed miserably in the wake of greater powers.
"Very well," That somewhat comical voice; it rang prominent over the chaos, "I'll give you the grace of proving yourself a hero if this is what you've intended to be." It was a grace indeed. But it was of no consequence.
This hero, and the one he sought to save, would die like the rats they are.
A swift hand gliding through the air too quick for any human eye to catch unaware; the barrel of a gun pressed firmly against this hero's forehead and it was not hesitation that kept the man from pulling the trigger but mere grace.
He would allow only one move.
That fell smile still-painted upon the white canvas of that mask.
It was almost insulting.
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Post by Morgan on Sept 18, 2014 21:44:59 GMT -5
Had that been reflex from the stabbing, or on purpose? Piper was let go, a light toss away from either Morgan or the Masked Man amounting to a short distance. Not much force behind it, not much use.
"Very well," such a voice sounded out of place with what the speaker had been intending to do-- it was too cheerful and disconnected, "I'll give you the grace of proving yourself a hero if this is what you've intended to be."
His next movement was swifter than the eye could trace, but Morgan's own had made their effort to catch what would happen. It was the one thing he didn't have time to process before. The Masked Man had a weapon, pointed right at the blond's forehead.
Thoughts ran through Morgan's mind while he still had one to think with, and in the fact of this detail it was as if all of time around had slowed for him to make the most of it while he could.
He had a gun. Why didn't he use it before? He tried to choke Piper instead, that sadist! And now I've made myself a target.
But the shot didn't come just yet. The Masked Man with a smile painted upon his face, one with golden eyes-- Morgan hoped he would have enough time afterward for such a detail to need recalling.
If this guy really was going to shoot, best make this quick...!
Morgan stuck his finger between the hammer and cylinder of the gun to keep it from falling all the way, then used his free hand to aim the barrel up and away from his forehead.
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Post by Prince Piper on Sept 21, 2014 16:58:39 GMT -5
Word Count: 493 Sanity: 90% Whether or not his wild flailing had the been the reason for his relief, Piper found the sharp pain of concrete-against-backside an appropriate payment for nearly dying. His vision, still tunneled, prevented him from getting a full handle on the situation, but his mind was filling in the blanks the best way it knew how. Figures, people, buildings, animals; they were all here, watching him, staring as he struggled there on the ground to get a grip on life. Ever since the day he discovered that he was unwell, Prince had made a conscious effort to escape into that dream world of his at every opportunity. It was familiar, comforting, and most of all, a reminder of a life he had once led. Sitting in his room, playing with people that did not exist for only moments at a time, moments that expanded in his mind to include countless adventures and bonds between he and dream-entity. Outwardly, he understood his problem. Inwardly, he could not dismiss the things his own body revealed to him as illness, especially when he was not an individual without them. But here, lying on the ground of a broken, post-apocalyptic city, having just been rescued from a sticky situation that would have likely brought down the Pied Piper of Miracle... Prince knew what must be done.
Somehow, some way, real life was marginally a better alternative to a place he had been told, and had come to realize, was nothing but a deceptive amalgamation of his own desires. In real life, he had company. He didn't need to create those fleeting phantoms. There was no way that Prince had understood any of this or could have worded his epiphany in any eloquent, comprehensible fashion, but the phantoms dissipated nonetheless. As his vision plowed through the tunnel like a train, a real train from a real world in an age long gone, Prince fought to protect the entity he could attribute to his newfound sense of normalcy. Hoping that his guise of weakness had not let on that he would be capable of any form of retaliation, Prince speedily lifted off his haunches and entwined his spindly body around the legs of the man. Against all odds, Prince bit and tore and threw his weight in any direction while remaining securely latched onto his legs; any normal man would collapse under the weight of a young adult breaking down his foundations. Meanwhile, the rats appeared, four of them to be exact, alerted to the plight of their kin. They raced toward the masked man, Prince, and Morgan, and skittered up the man's legs as they neared. It was an onslaught of ferocity. Prince never once considered the position his friend was in because his instincts took over without consideration of reason or sense. His actions may have implicated his fate, but his body knew how to act no other way.
The man would relent or suffer for his transgressions.
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Post by King on Sept 25, 2014 16:38:17 GMT -5
The blonde's attempts were futile, near non-existent if his desired outcome of halting the bullet had not come to fruition. It was of no consequence; a forceful twist to twist an uncommon angle against that of the the blonde's own human arm to leave exposed that haughty and pale skinned head clear for any manner of exploitation. In this case, a swift and forceful headbutt that was sure to break open the skin and, perhaps, crack the bone.
As for the child himself who would soon after wrap his own arms around the masked man's legs in an attempt to cause a stumbling, he would be all the more a fool for committing to such folly. The child would wrestle against the immovable; his feeble and pathetic strength amounted to nothing but the pitiful appearance of a weakling vying against forces much greater than he. The gun's single eye henceforth looked down upon the vermin and indeed he disregarded the vermin that came in approach as even they deserved more mercy than these humans ever would.
A quiet chuckle to his own self to hearken the thunder before the rain.
And that thunder rang loud; It was clear and reverberated throughout.
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Post by Prince Piper on Sept 30, 2014 21:55:48 GMT -5
Word Count: 744 Sanity: 40% The stalks of the tree were terrifically steady. Piper found that the more he struggled, the more tired he became, and the less his decision to let loose seemed to be a good one. He had put himself in a risky position, fighting legs whose unwavering resolve was bested only by that of their master. It was the masked murderer, the man who was supposedly the reason for the latest nightly disappearances throughout Miracle. If Prince were in a proper state of mind, if his sanity were not sleeping away as he realized the futility of his cause, he might have looked upon the situation with some irony - the kidnapper fighting the masked murderer, one whom had temporarily swayed public interest away from Prince's sins. It certainly would not belittle them but it was a wonder how opinion could change in a moment of distraction. Prince knew the man to be the one witnesses had whispered of, in the short moment he took to glance up at his assailant's unchanging grin. The mask must be high-quality, the barrier between skin and whatever material practically invisible. The eyes were golden, as if they had been constructed in tandem with the mask. The man could have been born wearing it and Prince might have mused this to be true, had he the time or reasoning.
Morgan's attempts were just as pointless as his own and now the gun laid squarely against his lifeline, pointed down at him from a dangerously close distance. This would be a quick death, if the man were merciful. He would aim somewhere final, somewhere resolute that would seal Prince's fate in the flickering moment it would take to pull the trigger. His life soared by in a mesh of confusing colors and shapes that he could not understand. There was no call to slow down. That was life, as he could remember it. Just a mess of nonsense, always 5 steps behind the people around him, coming around to obvious truths like a flashbang revelation, hitting the walls of reality with every shambling rush toward... what? Living? Survival? These things that people did so naturally, Prince worked twice as hard, just to keep his mind clear and his thoughts normal. It wasn't fair. He hadn't been given a chance to do anything with himself, only given enough to time to further ruin a failed projection of the world's disturbed mentality. This wasn't fair.
Lightning struck in a jagged flash of blinding heat. Prince waited for the boom that routinely followed the penultimate light show, but none such cosmic contrivance delivered him to any Beyond. Somewhere to the left of him burned with such ferocity that he was now a spirit, drifting off to the right of a physical body he could still feel, just barely. But no, it was not so. His vision returned to him as his beady pupils centered themselves. He did not recall moving as quickly as was required to dodge the brunt of the bullet, but the pounding in his head told him some damage had been done. The feeling of a solid object always next to him, a tangible blurriness accompanied by a ringing, audible pain. Part of his left ear was missing, he knew, but he had no time to feel it and could only scramble off in the opposite direction of the pain's source. It wasn't much pain. But it was horrifying all the same, a promise of more to come. His legs nearly collapsed beneath him a number of times as he instinctively charged off on all fours. It was an awkward gallop, though quiet, and not at all befitting of a non-rodent, but it was all his body knew how to do. He latched onto the corner of an alley and rose up to meet his former self, his human self, pawing at his ear with a hiss of pain as he did so. He stole a glance back at Morgan and the predicament he now faced, alone, and hoped beyond anything that his cowardice would not plague him, should his only friend perish tonight. He hesitated, just momentarily.
It called forth the ghosts, which he saw all around him as he ran. Soon, he was running from them, rather than the masked man or his obligation to a friend. They replaced his worldly regrets for him, eased his sorrows by exchanging them for more pressing, imaginary problems. The ghosts were gone in a flash but their memory remained. His disorder was a ghost that could not be so easily exorcised.
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Post by Morgan on Oct 1, 2014 20:11:02 GMT -5
Even with all the struggle, the masked man refused to yield. Morgan had found only a momentary relief from the outcome of receiving a bullet between the eyes, but it was soon replaced by forceful impact that had him reeling back. Reflex-- he shut his eyes and placed a hand up to cover his forehead. In that moment where aquamarine eyes were hidden behind their lids, he heard the gunshot but felt nothing.
Piper!? He seized up like he'd been dunked into ice cold water. He needed to open his eyes and move, but what would he see? What of this would he have no choice but to have etched into his mind? He forced himself to take in the next new bits of memory just as Piper went scrambling off, blood running from his wound from a bullet that could have been fatal. The young man ran (if you could call it that), and after a moment's hesitation, kept going. He was terrified but alive. That was most important.
Morgan took that moment to escape the only way he knew how, now that the surrounding structures were ones to allow it. He climbed his way up and hoped the masked man hadn't the same skills to follow him. Once he was on the rooftops, he moved away from the edge to conceal himself, then looked around for Piper. He'd gone into an alleyway, but where did he go past that? It was best for the blond to track him down and be sure of his safety. The brunet was okay for the moment but he had still been wounded, and the sooner they could minimize the damage, the better.
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Post by Incursio on Oct 10, 2014 6:26:04 GMT -5
Eyes watched from a place of darkness; they waited for the right time to act.
All the while she breathed lightly against the pressure that stirred her lungs to breath heavily.
Anxiety,
Trembling,
Doubt,
Timidity,
Fear.
"Not for me, but for them."
Or so she told herself through the sound of her own voices speaking loudly within the silence of her own mind.
"Just breath..."
Resolve,
Burning,
Reassurance,
Stillness,
Courage.
And she watched still as the fray went on before her very eyes; the tense aura in the atmosphere of the air, it was all prevalent and it called to her like a siren singing their song of destruction from the rocks that stood upright amongst the turbulent seas and then,
The gun was raised against the weak,
The intention was made clear.
It was inevitable; a valiant heart coupled with a gallant soul to stir the apprehension that further stirred the very act.
A quick dash,
The bright flash and it's thundering thunder that brought forth death in it's wake,
A blunt edge to repel the violence and make her presence known.
The bullet would not have failed otherwise.
His own targets had been freed from whatever manner of merciless death this mask would have brought and their role in this dangerous dance of death was seemingly over; she would take their place but not in death. No, she would surely live through this, she had to, she needed to, there was no other option, and she would, for the world needed her and her strength and this very moment only spoke a more true testament to the fact.
And of course it would have been so, that the mask was taken aback in subtle surprise at the sudden attack, and though struck hard against the white of that mask, there was no numbing pain nor fractured bone to accompany such a collision as this. Only the laugh; that mocking chuckle that added only insult to the futile efforts enacted against him. The other two were gone and there was no need to remember them, for even if his own hand had not delivered their lot in life called death, they would soon come to claim it as their own in perhaps a manner more fitting. Perhaps a bandit, or a beast, or a bandersnatch, or a sadist. For in a world where time itself passed without taking it's toll on their condition, the conditions of their death would require the hand of another and this pleased him; they would find no mercy in a natural death.
The stare down.
This one was scary.
His very aura was one of deep seeded evil far detached from whatever good, if any, once thrived and flourished within him.
This one was an even greater fool.
Her very frame was incapable, weak, and she was far from whatever strength, though weak even at it's peak, she could ever hope to achieve.
"Just breath," A whisper from that deep dark. She tried to call upon a passion perhaps left over from days of old before this reality came to be, thoughts of light prevailing over the dark, thoughts of good triumphing; her resolve was quickened more-so.
"Fool."
And then the clash.
They both danced the dance of death there in that place now.
Only one would leave alive if it had to come to that.
She would not leave this place a soul.
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