EVENT ∞ LOG — July 125

[thediadem]

Event ∞ Log

In the Flesh

Jump ⇅ :: Visits — First Contact — Hitchhikers — Notes

∞ Prologue ∞

It's not real, it's not real.

Somewhere in the Blocks, late at night, a young woman repeats the words over and over, fumbling with her room key. She doesn't dare look over her shoulder again, begging her hand to obey. Her fingers are stiff and smooth, and it makes each movement more difficult. Eventually, the door gives way. She stumbles into the apartment, slamming it behind her and locking several bolts.

Leaning back on the door, she lets her key ring fall to the linoleum as she holds her hand up to her face. It isn't just her fingers now. Painted plastic has taken over her entire right hand, spreading up her forearm toward a ball-jointed elbow that creaks painfully. She grabs her neck with her flesh hand, sucking in a sharp breath as she tries to steady her heart.

It's not real, it's not real...

She takes another breath, then turns on the light. The bulb flickers. Hazy light flood the room with an incessant buzz.

She freezes.

A figure stands in the opposite doorway. It doesn't move, stuck in a pose with an outstretched hand—one made of flesh and bone. Her hand.

She screams.

Info & Mechanics — NPC Forum Post — Event Interaction ::: ⇅ Top

Strange Visits

Panorama

For the first week or two of July, life goes on as usual. You have a lot on your plate—jobs, loans, rent, that creep who won't stop staring at you when you're filling up your car—and the last thing you've got time for is other people's problems. Or maybe you find room to listen, anyway? Whatever the case, it's mostly a lot of stories and pointing fingers: a shopkeeper accuses his friend of stealing from him, somebody claims their boss must've skipped town to avoid paying the employees, and a woman is frantic about her missing husband. He never goes anywhere without telling her.

If you decide to look into it, none of the incidents seem connected. After all, people frequently go missing in the Diadem, friends betray each other, and businesses often go bankrupt, leaving their workers to pick up the pieces. Funny thing, though: here and there, you swear you glimpse a figure who isn't entirely flesh. Their features are just...a bit odd. Is it your imagination? When you move in for a closer look, something gets in your way and the figure disappears.

On the other hand, you think to yourself, it's not as though everybody on this planet looks standard. If a man can have horns, why can't his skin also be a bit plasticky?

Use the Event Interaction comment any time you need specifics or some direction for an element you're engaging within the event. This can be an NPC victim your character is questioning, an aspect of the diffusion zone your character is testing, or anything along those veins. While you're encouraged to make things up on your own, too, if you're ever unsure of the results or the answers you might get, approach us there!

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First Contact

The Fringes

Inevitably, you take the risk and head back into the Fringes. It has what you need, and the bizarreness in Panorama isn't making the city feel like much of a refuge, either. Besides, long trips aren't unusual for anyone in the Diadem. As you drive, you might even find yourself reluctant to return to the city. After all, there's so much across the multitude of diffusion zones that regardless of how dangerous it can be, perhaps some part of you is attracted to the thrill of the unknown.

If the promise of loot isn't enough, a note on the Forum might be. Here, you'll scroll across a brief message from who else but the ever-eager Felix Bjurstrom, joined by his daughter, Olive "Ollie" Bjurstrom. (Looks like he's got a new phone again!) If nothing else, the investigative or curious nature in you gets you going. What if this is a piece of the puzzle you need to go home?

If you want your character to scavenge items, check how that works. The Map identifies where each Quadrant is located.

Among the Shadows — Abandoned Mall

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 10-hour drive from Panorama, a standard American shopping mall rises through the cracked and broken highway. A portion of its vast parking lot melts into the road ahead and behind. There are cars in the parking lot, each one perfectly preserved: no rust, no dust, nothing.

The mall's lights are on. The moment you step inside, you'll notice that you're not alone. Inside, shadow corpses are everywhere, frozen in time. Their bodies show no signs of distress. If you try to touch them, a dark, ashy residue coats your fingers. You see a young couple linking arms, a mother bending over to pick up her child, and a man ordering his last meal at the KFC. It's as though they all just...stopped. While eerie, whatever force swept through here is long gone.

The upside is that nobody will bother you while you look around—aside from other fluxdrifts, of course. The shops and their offerings are stuck in the 90's. Big electronics are cosmic touched, rendering them worthless, but smaller electronics like cassette tapes, CDs, and Walkmans are all viable. You can also grab clothes, snacks, and (cheap) jewelry.

And, as you pass by the store windows, you see many mannequins on display. That's normal, so you don't think twice. At least, until you swear one of them keeps moving around the store. Though its pose never changes, it almost appears to...follow you? That can't be right. You must be seeing things.

Zone Effects
Touching any of the frozen shadows will cause the victim to believe that their companion(s) have transformed into monstrous creatures. Attempts to approach you will only register as an attack rather than placating gestures, while words will sound like snarls or spoken threats. An induced panic will make it more difficult to think logically and see through the hallucination. The illusory creatures can take the form of anything that might frighten or threaten you the most.

You can break free of the illusion through a variety of methods, including your own willpower, being knocked out by your friends, or seeing/hearing something that makes you realize it isn't real. The hallucination isn't overly intense, but it can cause a bit of havoc among you and your companions...and increase the likelihood a mannequin might make contact unnoticed.

Wall of Refuge — Strange Temple

©

In Quadrant 1, about a 6-hour drive from Panorama—and on the way to the abandoned mall above—stands a geometric structure made of metal and stone. Sharp angles shoot up from the ground to form a distorted hexagon. The gateway is littered with sigils: some weathered by time, others freshly carved into the rocky surface. They glow when you drive forward, beckoning you closer. Come in, whispers an unknown compulsion in your mind. You are home.

You may succumb to the whispers for any number of reasons: sleep deprivation, desperation for a place to rest overnight, or a need to hide from raiders or dangerous creatures lurking in another nearby zone. Regardless, you give in and enter the triangular entrance. The stone gate lifts to grant you passage, revealing an effigy of a multi-limbed being. A deity? A symbol of power? Though you're unsure, you continue deeper. Your footsteps echo across the cavernous halls.

Behind you, the heavy gate slowly closes with a rumbling finality. Despite the chilly entranceway, the interior of the temple is warm and inviting. Candles line the walls. Fountains flow peacefully. You can enter one of the many rooms to find a soft bed, fresh cakes, succulent meat, and fine wine available for you. Behind a silk curtain is a steaming bath lined with soothing floral herbs and oils.

Meanwhile, throughout your explorations, you might sense a figure or a shadow in the passageway. A glimpse of shiny plastic appears oddly out of place in a temple of this kind.

Zone Effects

• If you are a believer and decide to trust the gifts bestowed upon you, then you may safely indulge. The wine will warm you up, the food will fill your belly, and you can sleep through the night. When you awaken, you can safely leave the temple refreshed. Your vehicle will be outside, untouched, as if some power within was protecting your belongings.
• If you are a heretic and doubt the offerings you've been graciously given, the gifts will begin to rot and all amenities will crumble to dust. The more your cynicism betrays you, the more the temple will take until nothing remains except the oddly textured walls bearing down on you. As you examine the surface, you realize the stone is built from a manifold of dozens—no, hundreds—of twisted bodies. Their arms are raised in reverence, piled upon each other like human bricks. Their gaping mouths are frozen in a silent scream. As for you and your companions...what fate will await the nonbeliever?

The Last Stop — Foggy Town

©

In Quadrant 4, about a 3-hour drive from Panorama, east of the currently unused train tracks, a thick mist rolls through the highway. Here, the sky darkens rapidly into night and the temperature drops. If you've traveled unprepared, presuming the heat in Panorama spreads into the Fringes, you'll find that's not so. A chill spreads into your bones and creeps up the back of your neck.

Then the ground rumbles. The tremors shake your vehicle. Maybe it even makes you lose control briefly or sends you swerving off-road, straight into the fields. And in the middle of the fog, you see it: a figure standing in the middle of the field. Behind it are a few houses, making up a tiny rural town. The houses are dilapidated, many crumbling. Supplies within are minimal, and many items are broken or spoiled.

Do you approach? Do you drive past? Merely staring for a second too long will be enough for the hitchhiker to choose you as its ride, but its appearance may not be all that keeps you in place. In the distance is another bigger shadow. A much bigger shadow. It looms in the distance without true mass or form. Within the void of its body, a searchlight sweeps over the misty town. It does not move. It simply looks while the ground shakes. Each time its light catches a glimpse of something that doesn't belong—an animal, a vehicle that drove too deep into the tall grass, a raider that went too far into town—a sonorous howl reverberates through the zone.

Then the shadow will teleport to its target and crush the intruder without mercy before retreating back to its watchful post. And the intruder is indeed crushed: any living organism caught by the Light Guardian will be flattened with a horrifying crunch of broken bones and squished organs.

Zone Effects
While the Light Guardian can't be defeated or confronted, you can outrun or hide from its sweeping beam. If you stop far enough on the side of the road, it won't notice you...but you can still watch as it mangles an unfortunate raider or traveler. Possibly, you see the spray of blood or hear the screams before you run. Perhaps you realize how easily you could've met your own gory fate.

If you've left your car and gone too deep into the town before you realize the danger, you can do one of two things: you can risk hiding in an abandoned house in the town and hope that the sunrise comes. In zones like this, the day/night cycle is unpredictable, and many places are permanently cast in darkness. Or, you can try to run back to your vehicle and pray you don't get caught.

Alternatively, you've plowed directly into the field when raiders in pursuit force you into the zone. Should fortune favor you, they'll be obliterated by the Light Guardian while you flee. The beam tracks quickly, but can only shine in one direction at a time so the key is to bob and weave.

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Hitchhikers

Anywhere

Not everyone who enters the diffusion zone will pick up a mannequin, but the possibility is there. Once you make first contact, you will gain a hitchhiker. Unlike most aspects of the diffusion zones, this one has gathered into a storm, meaning the effects will breach even normally stable and anchored strongholds like Panorama.

Some fluxdrifts will brush off your problems while a few might believe you. Others will offer solutions in their own way, including a doctor who'll pay to obtain strange plastic limbs. Not everyone will pitch in to help. The city's big, populated, and somebody on the street turning doll-like doesn't affect them (...until it does). They've got a job to get to and mouths to feed.

Unwanted Passenger

When do you first notice your passenger? At any point, really. Perhaps it goes like this:

You glance in the rearview mirror and glimpse a figure in the backseat. When you spin around, there's nobody there. Then it happens again. This time, you realize it's not a person, but a dummy. A mannequin. It's sitting upright. And is it...wearing a seatbelt? Or maybe it's thrown itself across the back bench as though somebody tossed it there, uncaring.

This time, when you look back, it's still there. You pull over and dump it on the side of the road. That's taken care of, you think. You drive some more. For a few hours or even a day or two—depending on how long you've traveled—you don't think much of it. Then suddenly, it's back. And it keeps coming back no matter how much you try to get rid of it.

Or it goes like this:

You return from a standard trip into a diffusion zone. It went pretty well, you think. You found some clothes at a creepy mall and now you're ready to get some sleep. When you open your trunk to retrieve your belongings, you notice a mannequin stuffed inside, limbs bent at odd angles. You're a little weirded out, but you decide to dump it on the street and move on.

You shower. In the bathroom mirror, the mannequin suddenly appears behind you. Over the next few days, this continues. The mannequin appears in a booth across the diner as you're eating your eggs. It's behind a shelf in the corner store. It's in your closet. Each time you check, it vanishes...but then, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's right there in plain view. It'll even let you throw it away, burn it, anything you can think of. But it always comes back.

However it plays out, you realize that people around you do notice it...sometimes. That doesn't mean anyone will believe you that things are just that weird. Most people have better things to do. They don't know you, after all, and even if they did, well, this place does have a habit of driving people a little crazy. Witnesses casually push the mannequin aside and tell you that's a funny prank. Your regular waitress pats your shoulder and suggests you get some sleep. You're not looking well. The shopkeeper demands you take that thing before you go. He's not responsible for your junk.

But there's a small chance you run into someone who seems to be going through what you are. Unfortunately, they seem to actually have it worse and aren't making much sense. Still, you can try questioning them and see what answers you get. At least, before you lose them for good. For some of you, the victim you run into is in especially bad shape...and you have to wonder how long before you end up the same.

Trading Places

For some of you, the mannequins might not do more than be a nuisance. While that's not ideal, either, it doesn't completely upend your life. Others are less fortunate. If you're one of the latter, you'll begin to notice symptoms.

The first time it happens, you're startled to hear the mannequin speak. To begin with, its voice might be guttural and unnatural, incapable of stringing more than a few words together. Then it seems to learn. It talks in full sentences. Its voice smooths out. It starts to sound more and more like you...right down to your speech patterns and accent. As symptoms progress with varying intensity—over days or weeks—you realize with dawning horror that you're losing parts of yourself. When you wash your hands, you notice a part of your skin is smooth and shiny. The next time the mannequin appears, its previously plasticky appearance is more flesh and blood.

Eventually, the mannequin becomes independent. It shops with your money. It steals while wearing a face that looks nearly identical to yours, especially from a distance. It calls your friend and says the things you would never say out loud to them. They're thoughts you've had, sure, but you know better than to hurt your friend's feelings...except apparently, you have. And now you can't even use your own voice to explain yourself. Your leg has been getting stiff. Your joints don't bend properly.

Meanwhile, the mannequin is now striding around smoothly. Its appearance is still uncanny and odd if anyone pays attention, but at a glance, it easily passes as a part of the crowd. As its final act, it's even absorbed small bits of your abilities if you have any. Not all of them, but enough to cause trouble. Throughout everything, you cannot harm your hitchhiker. Some unknown force stops you any time you think about it. You simply can't.

Related Incidents

The impact isn't contained only to those directly affected. The hitchhikers' influence spreads through the city. For some incidents, it's difficult to trace back to the source. For others, that's a little easier. Regardless, these occurrences could help you determine how to solve your own situation. Alternatively, if you've escaped unscathed, you can still find yourself dragged into a situation involving someone else.

Return to Sender

July 11 — The Forum: An anonymous poster contributes this bit of information that might catch the eye of those affected. You can try the same method, but it's a risk going back into the diffusion zones. No one can guarantee the specific zone you found the mannequin in is still standing. Further, you have to remember where you made contact to begin with.

If you decide to try it, be sure to take a friend. The less independent the hitchhiker, the more likely it will stick to your side even as you return it home. If the assimilation has progressed too far, though, you might have to utilize methods such as duct taping inside your trunk or strapping it down with ropes. It may struggle and say vile things to you or your companion.

Victimless Burn Victims

July 14 @ 03:00 — The Pavilion (East End): A handful of troublemakers grabbed some freaky mannequins wandering the street and, in a drunken stroke of genius, set them all on fire for no reason other than that they wanted to. Not only has this resulted in damage to the corner store nearby, but Enforcers have linked the incident to four hospitalizations at roughly the same time. Doctors from Saint Margery's Hospital (located in the Blocks) report that all four individuals suffered massive shock and claim to have endured unimaginable agony as if they had been "set on fire."

Curiously, none of them bear any physical wounds and, by all accounts, are completely fine (trauma aside). Notably, all four individuals were also suffering from various stages of "joint stiffness" and "hallucinations"...which have since completely vanished. You might wonder, is this the solution? Or perhaps the better question would be, is it worth it?

The Sculptor

July 15 — The Pavilion (Medical Clinic): Around July 14 onward, word begins to spread that a Dr. Maggie Wright (who insists on being called the Sculptor, though nobody seems to heed this request) will not only do an amputation for free, she will pay you for your limb if you are boasting an "unusual trophic change to the skin, resulting in a smooth and shiny texture." All she asks is she gets to keep the sample. Her promise is that she will study it to find a more permanent cure and, if she does, she will return the limb to you for reattachment.

Some end up trusting her. You wonder, maybe she could help? Dr. Wright will happily accept you as her patient if you agree. Her methods are indeed proper and sterile: she'll put you under and provide you with plenty of pain meds. She appears to have all of the equipment required to preserve the limb, too.

If you're suspicious, you can also pay her a visit, but you won't have much luck getting her in trouble or sniffing out any evidence of nefarious deeds. Her office hasn't got anything strange, she is indeed a real surgeon, and there are testimonials from patients who've had success under her care in the past. Plus, nobody's going to her who isn't doing so voluntarily (they've signed waivers)—even if you could argue how much desperation plays into their decision. Still...the thing about her "title" is a bit weird, right?

Dr. Maggie Wright is 5'2, Caucasian with a light Northeastern accent and silver hair often worn in a bun. She's in her 50s and looks fairly good for her age. Her voice is soothing. She has intense, wide blue eyes, which some might find unnerving, but that's not necessarily her fault.

∞ Notes ∞

• Mannequin contact is not required. Not everybody who goes into the diffusion will make first contact, and many won't. Characters can explore the mall, the temple, and the foggy field without ever picking up a hitchhiker.
• The diffusion zones described are only examples. Others will exist where mannequins can be found, including grocery stores, gas stations, abandoned parks, and more. You can make up your own, but check with us if you have any questions about limitations!
• The speed and intensity of all mechanics are entirely up to you. Generally, the earlier a character makes first contact, the more severe their consequences.
• Investigating the zones or helping others are perfectly fine ways to participate! Since the hitchhikers are meant to be more insidious, it won't be strange if your character isn't in the middle of the action right away or notices things a bit late.

Questions? Ask here

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Comments

Frank Castle | Punisher

[terrorisms]

( ooc plot comment | starters to follow. content warnings for violence, amputation, and general horror. reach me on plurk at paingravy or discord @righteously for anything you need! )

→ ʟᴏɢᴀɴ.

[terrorisms]

( It's late when Logan's walking past the diner — or possibly early. Those dark, empty hours between life, where most people are in their beds where they belong. The place itself seems closed up, all the lights off, the storefront glass windows dark and black and reflective at a glance.

The first thing that might tip him off about something being wrong is the screeching. It's not like a voice, not even like an animal. It's inorganic, and it's subtle, but with his hearing he should be easily able to pick up on it. High pitched, like nails on a chalkboard — and slow, dragging, scraping.

Should he peer through the windows properly, he'll be able to make out a shape. Broad shoulders hunched over the breakfast bar tabletop, perched on a stool. A familiar shape by now, probably, seeing as Logan's been having breakfast with it for the last few weeks.

Further investigation will reveal that the door is ever so slightly ajar, maybe a quarter of an inch, with splinters where the latch must've been secure once — but not anymore. Venturing in will put him at the right angle to see the source of the scraping: there's an empty plate in front of that figure, and jerky hands drag a knife through the tines of a fork, pantomiming the act of cutting food directly on the ceramic. )

[carcajous]

[ Twilight hours are strolling hours for Logan. The neighbourhood's not the nicest place for a walk this late—nowhere in the city really is—but the few searching for trouble make the smart decision not to bother him, and he's not exactly concerned if they did. He stops into one of those 24-hour corner stores filled with crooked shelves and dusty bottles. The fridge hums. The kid behind the counter stares at him with dark eyes. It's not 'til Logan's paid for a lighter and left that he realizes what was off: the clerk stood ramrod straight the entire time, not leaning, not slouching.

Huh. He doubles back. It's not one of those things people are talking about, is it? But when he looks through the grimy window, the kid's bent over, rummaging through a cupboard same as anybody.

Right. Okay. Place is driving him crazy.

So yeah, by the time he passes the old diner, he's already uneasy. Alarm bells ping through his head before he can pinpoint why. He stops. What, is someone in there? Sounds like somebody's in there. Looks it, too. His thumb brushes the splintered lock. The door sways. He pushes it open. Inside, the smell of ancient fry grease and coffee grinds fill the air. The scraping grows louder. His eyes land on the shape in the corner, knife and fork angled unnaturally, like how a five year old might do it.

What the hell.

Logan circles around until he's right in the figure's line of sight, waiting to see if he gets noticed or not. ]

[terrorisms]

( The shape at the bar does not look up at Logan's quiet arrival. This is fine with it. After all, they eat here together all the time. That's what they're doing now, isn't it? Maybe the other one is not eating, but soon he will be eating. They will be eating together.

It scrapes its fork across the plate and brings the tines to its mouth. There are no teeth in the jaw that hinges open, but the flat clack of upper and lower plastic open and close on the empty utensil rapidly, making a soft, uncomfortable chattering sound. It does not seem to realize that people don't leave the tines in their mouths when they chew.

It smells like Frank. It's wearing Frank's clothes — boots, utility pants, a thick sturdy jacket despite the heat — except that it couldn't find the vest, so some faint approximation of it sits as a textureless, flat skin-style imposter across its featureless abdomen. It did find Frank's handgun, he may be able to smell that, too. It's settled in his lap, heedless to any semblance of firearm safety, crooked, with the barrel pressed against its own midsection.

After several ticking seconds of this, the other is still standing. Slowly, with the unpleasant creaking of immobile plastic, the figure turns its head to look at Logan — look being a generous term, seeing as there are only two smooth plastic divots where the eyes should be. The shape of lips exists, most of a nose, those things match the man that birthed it into being, screaming to life silently, nursing from the dark recesses of his soul. It is not old enough yet to have eyes.

But still, it stares expectantly. Aren't you going to sit? Doesn't he always sit? )

[carcajous]

[ They will not being eating together.

Slowly, Logan walks behind the counter entirely until he's face to face with not-Frank. The eyes are an empty void. If this is the man he knew, something's fucked him up good, and hell, at this juncture, Logan can't say there's a right way to tell who's who. If the victim's morphing into plastic and the mannequin's turning into flesh, sapping memories and everything, then at what point do they simply switch places? Forever? How's that work? He'd call if he could but. Never got his number. Never even got his name. Now he's looking at a bizarre simulacrum of his diner (occasionally pool) pal, and he's gotta wonder what state the other man's in if this thing's wandering around.

Unlike Karen's, it isn't attacking him. In fact, it appears to be waiting. What, for him to join it?

Yeah. No, thanks.

After a second, Logan does what any intelligent person ought to do in this situation: he waves his hand in front of its face. And then, if there's nothing, he pokes it. In the forehead, between the blank eyes, like he's trying to see if it'll tip over or bite him or something.

Really, he's just looking for a reaction. This creepy sightless staring shit isn't doing it for him. ]

[terrorisms]

( It happens fast. Alarmingly fast. Not super-human speed, but with reflexes exactly on par with that of the man it mimics. In a rapid, smooth singular movement, the mannequin snatches Logan's finger, bends his wrist back in a way that would break any bone that didn't happen to be adamantium, and simultaneously lifts the gun from its lap to pull the trigger with no real need to pause and take aim. It fires off a single clean round directly into Logan's forehead without hesitation.

It's the gunshot that catches Frank's attention. The real one, flesh and bone.

He's been looking for the goddamn thing. Ever since he noticed the handgun he keeps stashed by the door went missing, he's been trying to follow any kind of trail. The diner's not far from where he holes up, just a handful of blocks away, but in terms of hiding places in this shithole of a city, that might as well be an endless expanse. Maybe he should've thought to check the diner. Hadn't occurred to him until he figures out the direction of the sound and the rough vicinity of it. It's just that the damn place was closed, what reason would it possibly have--

Anyway, he hauls ass toward the sound. )

→ ᴄʟɪɴᴛ.

[terrorisms]

( He doesn't tap on Clint immediately. No, the first hunting trip he makes he does alone like usual, following the storm chaser reports about a mall out in Quadrant 1. He'd thought he'd managed to trim that asshole gang of storm chaser-chasers down to only one or two stragglers, but he learns the hard way that he was wrong. There may have only been one or two stragglers from that group, but that was only a fraction of their actual numbers. Apparently they go out in teams of five or six at a time on organized rotations. They have a structure. They have leadership.

The stragglers made it back to the hive, and told the rest all about the lone asshole that put down their friends. He bites off more than he can chew, especially considering he's not as geared up as he usually is back home. He makes it out, barely, by the skin of his teeth, and with the howling jeers of a pack of assholes revving their motors, trawling the parking lot for him.

When some other drifter posts on the forum about a whole town to loot cropping up in Quadrant 4, he knows they'll be going, and he knows they'll be expecting him. He also doesn't know the terrain — nobody does, they can't. It changes with every cosmic storm. He can't possibly preemptively prepare for what he's walking into, he can't know the best entry and exit points, he can't know where to perch for line of sight to thin their numbers down from a distance. He can't know anything.

Frank Castle's got an awful lot of dog in him, but the main reason he survives fights of a dozen-plus on one most of the time is not because he's cocky and reckless. It's because he's smart, and he's strategic. There's nothing smart or strategic about going in alone this time. He'd have to be either suicidal, or have an ego the size of Texas.

So he pulls up Barton's number, and he sends the guy a text. )

You feel up to cashing in that rain check?

[brandingproblem]

[This one's different. Something feels different, though he doesn't feel like he understands this place enough to know how or what or why.

Doesn't keep him from going out and looking. Shit to loot, when he's too awake and needs to be doing something physical. Think about it, Barton--maybe you should be a storm chaser. Be one of those crazy old coots crowing about the places that pop up. Would be something useful. And people always could use a helping hand.

He gets the ping from Frank god damn Castle. He owes the guy for making sure he survived that flooded office, made sure he could breathe and then made sure he could get back to the city without his body giving out. The idea of joining the big bad Punisher on a hunting trip makes something in him yearn for a good fight. Not the Dome kind, where, yeah, lives could be on the line, but it's usually one on one for entertainment. For money. He spent years tracking gangs down as Ronin, putting a stop to the assholes who would take advantage of the sudden vacuums of power.

Does he feel up to cashing that check?]

Tell me when and where.

[He does not initially say anything about the family van Frank has when he slides into the passenger seat. He'd only been somewhat aware of the travesty when trying to not re-drown in open air driving back to the city. Seeing it up close and personal is something else.

Gets a Look about it, though. Just one. Beggars and choosers, but there can indeed be some fun made about it anyway. Hell, Clint doesn't have nearly this kind of room; he really needs to look into getting his car fitted with a back seat.

The idea that these raiders are organized enough to have numbers and leadership on their side is alarming, it's true. Something they'll have to look into, follow shit to the top, else picking off the guys going doing the looter-looting is just gonna be a Hydra situation. Cut one down, three more etc etc etc. They won't have any good plan until they can see the place, but it'd be better if they at least have some bare basics.]

What do you think, go in quiet, get up on a rooftop, stay up high? [He squints at the rolling bank of fog moving in. Leans on the dash and looks up, seeing the sun suddenly disappearing as they go.] Shit, looks like we're gonna have some low visibility.

[terrorisms]

( It hasn't taken Frank long to become completely immune to the looks he gets over his choice of ride. First it was a matter of having no better alternatives, now he's developed a real appreciation for the combination of cargo space and the inconspicuous nature of it. He blends in, nobody expects the minivan to be housing a man sporting a bulletproof vest and a small arsenal. It's been working for him.

Only thing he might take umbrage with his the god damn stickers, which he's tried exactly one time to remove, only to discover that they're all actually perfectly flat and melded into the body of the god damn car. They're inside the glass and the metal. They're not going anywhere.

Anyway, Clint's got plenty of legroom in the passenger's seat, and the roof over his head functions as a real roof, so he can Look all he wants.

The rolling fog swallows any agreement he might've had to the plan to find higher ground. The very, very swift transition from day to night follows hot on its heels. It was only a three hour drive to get here, and they rolled out early. Should still be plenty of daylight left, but you wouldn't know it about five minutes into the perimeter of the diffusion zone. He heaves a sigh. )

Would've had the gear for this back home. ( It's an unhappy grumble, his mind drifting to another van a universe away, well-equipped with a couple night vision scopes. No point bitching about what he doesn't have now, though. Something he's just gonna have to save up for all over again. ) Rooftop's still probably the best idea, all things considered. We just gotta go in dark, or else-

( Pause. He chews the inside of his cheek. Amends: )

Could set up a decoy nest somewhere easy to watch. Flashlight's gonna be a beacon to anybody on the ground in this weather. We plant one, make it look like a bad stakeout job, see if they take the bait, maybe?

( When you're hunting a pack of predators, easiest way to manage them is to give them prey. It's an idea, at least. )

[brandingproblem]

[The tarp does its job and does it well, shut up about your actual solid roof maybe.

Clint drums his fingers on the dash for a few moments. Hates that while they get useful intel about places sometimes, they never get any real good details. Have to just see what it all looks like when they get there.] Alright, we'll scope out a couple viable perches. Two different rooftops for you and me, different angles of attack. We set the decoy on a lower roof. [Gives them the advantage of elevation.] Then the usual game of sit, wait, shoot 'em when they take the bait, chase down the others when they run.

[In this fog? Gonna be harder than he makes it sound, and they both know it. There's a chill starting to creep up his spine, and it's not just spooky nerves. The heat's given way, too, the same way the sun did.]

Not seeing any other cars. [No other headlights bouncing off the fog, or in the distance going in the same direction.] Doubt we're the first ones here, though. Maybe everyone else is trying to steer clear for the fog.

[terrorisms]

( He nods along with the plan, lips pressed into a thoughtful line, calculating, analyzing, considering countermeasures and pitfalls and how to compensate for them — all those things happen absently and automatically in the background of his mind. The foreground focuses in on the fog for a long few moments; he eases off the accelerator, toggles the fog lights. They go slower, safer, but it's not because he's afraid of wrecking them. He's looking for tail lights, headlights, shapes off the side of the road.

They pass trees and fields and crops, and for a while, nothing stands out.

His thoughts stray back to the two perch plan, and apropos of nothing, he huffs out a breathy, quiet chuckle. Realizes it's out of nowhere, so he shoots a fleeting glance Clint's way, just for a flash of a second, and explains; )

I was a Scout Sniper, back in the marines. My team, we, uh- when we were training for it, we used to give each other shit, you know- nice shot, Hawkeye, that kinda thing. I was just thinking, I used to know a couple of guys who'd trip all over themselves over the opportunity to try and outshoot you during something like this.

( Used to. They're all dead now — except one, and while Russo would definitely be one of the ones eager to stroke his own ego getting competitive with Clint, Frank chooses not to think about that poisonous son of a bitch whenever he can help it.

They don't get too much more time to bullshit; soon enough, an alarming rumbling beneath their wheels sends the van's automatic traction control kicking on, and his grip on the steering wheel goes steely. )

→ ɴᴀsʜᴜᴀ.

[terrorisms]

( It's late in the month when Nash gets the text. Things have been happening to several of them already, rumors popping up here and there about mannequins. About bringing things back from diffusion zones. Frank's given no real indication that any such thing has been happening to him, at least not to her, so it might come as a surprise when — for the very first time — Frank texts her first. )

I need a hand. You got a minute?

( One way or another, the conversation leads to asking her to swing by his place as soon as she can. Now. The sooner, the better. When he opens the door for her, there's a grim look on his face. The first thing he says once he shuts it behind her is: )

You remember when I stitched your ass up before you could bleed to death all over my floor? I'm cashing in. It's your turn.

[nashua]

[ Nashua shows up right after her shift at work. Smelling strongly like syrup and coffee, she wears a butter yellow polo shirt with Daphne's Diner ironed into the fabric and a severe shadow of puffed up purple skin and pulverised blood vessels around her right eye. It's unusual for Frank to reach out like this, prompting at least some concern.

A noise on the far side of his living space holds her attention for a second, the muscles in her throat contracting and settling slowly. Then, back to Frank. ]

First of all, it wasn't my ass. Secondly — hi, Frank.

[ Why does he only ever behave like someone who wasn't raised in a pig's slophouse during their encounters when she's work? She's determined to train him through basic social courtesies or die trying. ]

What's up? How can I help?

[terrorisms]

( You wanna know why that is, Nash? Because so far the only time they've really spent together outside of her work hours has been during an emergency. He's got plenty of manners when she's off the clock, but he doesn't have the patience to bullshit his way through small talk when something urgent's pressing in on them. Something like a knife wound — or like this.

He holds up his right hand. A passing glance from a distance would make it hard to spot — after all, they're still the right shape and almost the right color... but up this close, it'll stand out clearly. The off-white of three of his fingers from just beneath the knuckles, and the fourth halfway down his index finger, are at least two shades lighter than his skin tone. They're smooth, perfectly flawlessly smooth. Locked in shape at a slight bend, like a doll's loose, permanent grasp. No fingerprints, no callouses, no hair, no marks, no imperfections. They're plastic. Hardened, impossible plastic.

His left hand produces a knife from somewhere, gives it a little flip to hold it handle-out by the blade, and he says: )

I need you to cut off my fingers.

[nashua]

[ "Cool!" A young boy's voice cuts across her awareness. Shocked into stillness, she glances to the left again; there's a faint flickering around her eyelashes. It takes her a second to absorb everything she's just heard.

He wants her to what?

How, in all their encounters, has he gotten the impression she would be good at this? In everything from stitching herself up to dealing with handsy drunks to negotiating her own windshield repair to opening her own goddamn beer bottle, she's been hilariously useless. She's barely keeping a roof over her head. As her eyes drop to the knife he's holding out expectantly, Nash feels her stomach widen to show teeth and chew up her rapidly sinking heart. Cheap fluorescent light bounces strangely off his plastic fingers.

It takes her a second to get her voice together. She reaches for her stupid nickname for him to dissolve the tension clouding her thoughts. ] Franklin, I'm not— [ Fuck. ] This is a terrible fucking idea. Let me drive you to a clinic where a doctor can help you.

[ There's a vocalisation in the corner, a boy's sullen whine. "Do it!"

She forces herself not to look. Fortunately, she's had practice. ]

[terrorisms]

( As soon as the words let me escape her mouth, he's already shaking his head. He knows what she's gonna say, knows what she's gonna suggest. Already thought about it himself before he bothered texting her. )

I don't know if you got the memo, Nashville, but universal healthcare hasn't hit this shithole city yet. I go to one of those, they're not just gonna take my fingers, they're gonna take an arm and a leg while they're at it.

( He's already saddled with debt from the stupid god damn minivan he didn't even want. He holds out the knife more insistently, about a half-step away from stuffing it into her hand himself. )

The wait time at those clinics is hours. It's spreading. If we don't do this now, it's not just the fingers I'm gonna lose. I'd do it myself, but it's gotta be clean for them to put 'em back on after they figure out how to reverse what's happening.

( And after the first finger or two goes, it'd get a hell of a lot harder to manage on his own. Between the pain, the bloodloss, and the fact that he's not left-handed... yeah, not happening. )

ᴏᴘᴇɴ → ᴀᴍᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡs

[terrorisms]

( It's a ten-hour drive across Quadrant 1 to get to the mall. He arrives at nearly dusk, with the last fading orange light of the setting sun bouncing off a hundred pristine parked cars in a jam-packed parking lot. Can't help but stop and think about how this is the second god damn time he's had trouble finding parking in a presumably empty building that fell out of the sky, but here they are anyway. Some things don't change across universes, apparently.

He parks his minivan at the very edge of the parking lot. It's an absolute soccer mom vehicle, from the drop-down DVD players in the back to the coexist bumper sticker, the jesus fish symbol, and the stick-figure family on the back glass displaying two very happy lesbian mothers, a stick-figure son, and a shitload of stick-figure cats. It could not be more at odds to the guy who emerges from the driver's seat.

Frank shows up in gear that strongly suggests he's not here for a quick trip to the Abercrombie and Fitch. He's wearing a bulletproof vest adorned with a skull that might be iconic to the right audience, there's a rifle strapped to his back, and keen eyes might notice other little bits of gear or weaponry on him tucked away in tactical locations. Hard to spot, easy to reach.

He prowls through the place grimly, keeping a respectful distance from everyone else, showing a healthy wariness but no real hostility toward any other fluxdrift. It's not them he's here for — although, if he spots one reaching out to touch a shadow-person, he might break his silence to calmly call out to them: )

I wouldn't do that if I were you.

( Eventually, somebody in the wrong place at the wrong time might get the chance to see what he's actually locked and loaded for. Near the exit of the mall, a pack of nearly two dozen raiders linger, waiting, watching, laughing, shoving one another — but occasionally peering across the wide open expanse of shadow figures dotting the hallways, searching for signs of life unfortunate enough or unobservant enough not to spot them first.

If he sees another fluxdrift before they notice they've got company, he'll quickly reach out and tug them around a pillar out of sight with a low, unhappy hiss of: )

Shhhhit- ( And then a hushed, hurried, ) Don't move. Listen- listen to me, those assholes out there? Are not your friends. They see you, you're gonna have a real bad night.

[tataille]

[ Benny’s not exactly a subtle man, but he’s good at being a ghost when he wants. Kinda had to be, Purgatory might've been pure but it was ruthless, and you didn't stay alive by blasting your existence to the world. When he was alive, hunters saw him as a threat for just existing, so it was imperative he be able to slip through shadows unnoticed, blend into a crowd.

He's also a predator through and through - created not born, but a predator all the same. Things like him, they gotta be quiet, can't be scaring off prey with a ruckus, now can they?

Benny's already clocked the skull vest from a distance and smelled the man before he even saw him, and made a mental note - guy probably isn't here for the Pierre Cardin Starfleet clearance rack.

But when the stranger hisses out a warning and yanks him behind cover, Benny doesn’t resist. His boots scuff softly against old tile, back pressed against the cool metal of some defunct storefront behind the pillar. He listens, stares out at the raiders, and mutters real low; ]

Yeah, not my friends. Never seen so many all at once. [ What're they breeding now or something? Christ.

He glances at his savior, clocking the rifle, the gear, the grim set to his mouth. There’s something familiar in it - not in the face, no, he's never met this man in his life, but posture. That watchful tension, the kind that says he’s been through more than one hell and came out meaner. ]

[terrorisms]

( Benny's as insightful as ever; the man he examines he reads accurately in a single look. This guy's seen hell, lived it, clawed his way out of it — but part of him still exists there, left behind but impossible to fully sever. It's in the grim line of his mouth, it's in the rigid, militaristic set of his shoulders. It's in the weariness hidden in the lines between. Weary, but never resting, never done.

Certainly not done now.

Never seen so many all at once; there's a subtle grimace, a flit of his eyes away from Benny and back over toward the pack of hovering raiders, then back again. )

Yeah, I might have a thing or two to do with that.

( It's an unhappy admission. He's not too pleased about what this brings to light; Frank Castle's not generally a man that comes to a hunt unprepared. He tends to strategize for every eventuality. He did not strategize for this one.

It's alright, he can adapt, pivot. Make smart calls in light of new information; he decides a plan of action quickly, and delivers it with a half-decent amount of confidence. )

Here's the deal. In a minute, I'm gonna go out there and draw their fire. Gonna make it big, should get all their attention. Soon as they're on me, you book it the other direction, okay, head down that corridor to your right. Saw a fire exit. You're gonna wanna block it behind you in case you catch a couple strays. They catch you, they're gonna take everything you got — including your car, and then you're shit outta luck, so... don't get caught.

[tataille]

[ Benny immediately likes this man. No bullshit, no small talk, just straight to the point. The situation reminds him of Purgatory a little, all fight and no rest, odds completely against him. He squints at the raiders from his hiding spot, a dry smile curling at his lips. Guy reminds him of Dean, a little, minus all the tactical gear. ]

Hold on now, Prince Charming. I may look like a cute 'n cuddly teddy bear, but I'm a lot more durable than I look. [ His voice is low, Louisiana drawl thick, but it turns serious pretty fast. ]

I’ve gutted worse than them just to buy time for a friend to crawl outta the mud. You wanna draw their fire, I won’t stop you. But I ain't gonna run off like some damsel in distress - I move when you move. I got your back.

[ A beat, and his slow smile returns, a little more sinister this time. ]

Besides, if they get a hold of me, they’re gonna wish they hadn’t. [ A wink as he draws his blade, the only one he showed up with, the one from Purgatory. There's more in his car he's scrounged up and bartered half his damn life away for, but that doesn't happen to be accessible at this point. ]

The hell'd you do, anyway?

[terrorisms]

( It's around the time Benny calls him Prince Charming that Frank begins to suspect things are about to go a little off the rails here. He pulls a face, stifled bemusement, caught off guard by the pushback when he was expecting not a whole hell of a lot more than an adios, asshole and a your problem, not mine.

Watching out for only himself is easy. Killing people is easy, when that's his sole focus. When he's gotta split his attention between that and keeping somebody else alive, that's when things get harder. This guy's talking with confidence, and he's saying an awful lot of convincing things, but Frank doesn't know how much is skill and how much is bravado.

That knife makes for a pretty compelling case. That's not your standard street thug switchblade any Joe Asshole carries. That's the kind of weapon a man carries when he knows the value of it, knows how to use it.

It's got half of him wondering if he isn't gonna have to circle back to this guy eventually on the other side of the barrel. He doesn't have a problem with killers. He has a problem with the circumstances behind what makes them killers. There are right ones, and there are wrong ones. Guy sounds like a soldier. If that's the case, if that's his story, then they've got no problems. Otherwise... but that's not his business right now, not his mission, he's not about to fight a war on two fronts. Time and a place.

He considers the question, debates answering it. Goes back and forth on how honest he wants to be, and ultimately decides there's no reason not to level out the truth: )

I hunted down a few of their buddies. This crew, they got a good thing going. They hang out on the outskirts of zones, wait for drifters and storm chasers to do all the work looting, catch 'em on the way out. Take everything they've got, leave 'em for dead. I tracked a handful of 'em down a while back, but one got away. Turns out I might've been a little wrong about their numbers.

( Now they've got a score to settle with him, and they were smart enough to send enough people to get the job done.

Frank's not one to just spill intel for no reason, though. He wants to make something clear: )

You get involved, you're putting a target on your own head, too. This ain't a one-and-done. I'm gonna keep hunting these assholes until they're all in the ground, and if they think you're with me, they're gonna hunt you right back. I appreciate the offer, pal, but I don't think this is a war you wanna get into. You should walk away while you got the chance.

[godjr]

( Jack has managed to avoid the raiders but mostly just by being in the mall exploring rather than paying attention to the exit or entrance. Not very hunter of him, to not be keeping close eye on escape, but he's a powerhouse so he's the worst at remembering that when he's on his own. Plus he's been finding a lot of gifts to scavenge for other people.

He found a 90's backpack that has helped him store things in and he has it on now, a light jeans with colorful patches. He's filled up the backpack entirely, it's near overflowing. Jack is walking around not paying attention, looking around the mall and at the decorations and mannequins, so he also doesn't notice Frank until he reaches out. Then he's tugged around a pillar and out of sight and he looks genuinely surprised, although he doesn't make any noise. He's learned that if someone is pulling him places, there is probably a good reason.

The explanation makes him frown and he carefully peeks around the pillar to see the people Frank's talking about. They do look like they're up to no good. He's heard about the raiders but not come across them yet. It's then that he gets a good look at his new friend and sees the arsenal on him. )

Thank you for the warning.

( He says, hushed, back. Jack can just teleport around them, but he's not going to do that to a stranger if they haven't been spotted yet. )

You're not going to actually fight all of them with those, are you?

[terrorisms]

( It's a kid. It's a god damn kid. He's gotta be younger than Nash, even, right? What is he, twenty? Twenty-one? He shouldn't be out here on his own in a goddamn diffusion zone, especially not if he's as unarmed as he looks. First glance, this baby-faced young man would be the world's easiest pickings for even just one or two raiders, let alone the tiny flock that Frank inadvertently pissed off a few weeks back.

His lips press together into a flat, unhappy line, and he glances vaguely over his shoulder. Can't see around the pillar, there's no real point to it, just an absent gesture before he immediately refocuses on Jack. )

No. I try not to fight stupid battle unless I know I can win 'em, and one against a dozen isn't smart odds. Not without a little more prep time than I've got right now.

( He was expecting just a couple stragglers, just a small handful that'd likely get tipped off by the one that got away back at that flooded office building. Turns out, their numbers are a little more strong than Frank was banking on. He's gonna need to give them the slip, regroup, and maybe find some backup before he can confidently wipe them all out. )

What I am gonna do is get their attention so you can get the hell outta here without getting spotted, kid. They see you, they're gonna take you for everything you've got. When I give you the go-ahead, you need to turn and haul ass that way, understand?

[godjr]

Oh, no, no, you don't have to worry about that. It's okay.

( Jack's more concerned about Frank getting worried about him as he clearly is, considering he's talking about distracting them from him. It's a kind thing to do and says a lot about his character, so Jack instantly likes him. He wasn't so sure with all the weapons, they seemed a bit much, but Frank's instinct to help someone is genuine. Jack knows how he presents and that he seems harmless and helpless to people who don't know any better. Even people who know how powerful he is can forget with how he looks.)

I know it doesn't look like it, but I can take care of myself.

( Jack could disintegrate them, although he's not tried to do that for the obvious reasons since coming here. Being that he really doesn't like killing people unless he must, but he still knows he can toss them around like nothing and shrug off any weapons. It's gotten more true since absorbing all of his father's energy.

He tilts his head at Frank and smiles, his gaze curious rather than concerned, and there's an openness to him that goes against the tragedy of his short life. He hasn't learned to shut down, despite all that. If anything he craves connection.)

It says a lot about you that you'd try though, you're a good person.

[terrorisms]

( You don't have to worry about that. It's okay. — Frank stares at this kid flat out, unsure whether he should be assuming he doesn't know the real threat they're up against, or if he's just downright delusional. Genuinely can't tell, and it does absolutely nothing to lessen Frank's concern.

He lets out a soft breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff — some incredulous, near-silent third thing. )

Trust me, kid, I'm not.

( Good people don't do the kinds of things he can do. He's just a person who knows what's right and what's wrong, and letting a kid get jumped is hands-down wrong, no question about it. )

Alright, well- look, either way, in a few minutes bullets are gonna start flying, and I'd feel a hell of a lot better if you were nowhere near it when it started going down. I'm not gonna be able to worry about myself if I'm worried about you. Getting you as far away from here as humanly possible is gonna help me not get my ass clipped. Can we get on the same page about that?