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

[terrorisms]

( He doesn't sit immediately. First comes the gathering of a few more supplies to go with her dish towel — one of them being the bucket of ice he's stuffed in the minifridge, which he holds up in answer to the question. Yeah, he thought about it. Can't imagine the logistics behind plastic deteriorating, but hell if he knows how this phenomenon works. Better not to take any chances — and besides, she'll be cutting away a few millimeters above where flesh begins to harden. That probably matters.

Step two in his genius plan involves rubber bands. When he settles into the chair across from her, it's with a little handful of them that he drops haphazardly, clumsily, onto the table's surface. One by one, he plucks up a band with his left hand and starts wrapping them around each individual finger on his right to cut off circulation. Should help with the bleeding, he thinks. If he wants to have any hope of getting them reattached, he can't have her cauterize the stumps after she chops them off.

Between that and the familiar IFAK awaiting her on the other side of the table, most of their bases should be covered. As covered as they can be for something like this.

He exhales a short, determined puff of breath and then levels her with a look. )

Alright... you ready? You got this, kid. It's gonna be fine.

[nashua]

[ Staring at his hand, uniquely characterised by lumps of plastic where his fingers would be and skin turning purple about a clump of rubber bands, her stomach turns; the thick smell of diner breakfast, lingering in her shirt, hits her and makes her feel nauseous in a way it hasn't done in weeks. It takes all her effort not to get up and run out the door. She doesn't want to do this. She doesn't want to be here.

In the far corner, a young girl's wheezing, crackling, gurgling sobs are like pins in Nash's pressure points. Don't do this. Don't hurt him.

The knife, made for cutting through thick meat, gleams sharp and faintly blue.

One thing about Nashua? She isn't squeamish. She's never been afforded the luxury. To her, squeamish is for people with only five senses; a cute little quirk for people who can look across an empty room and see an empty room. As she lifts the knife and lines it up with the seam where flesh meats plastic, her hand is steady. No, it isn't squeamishness characterising her unhappiness. It's the responsibility, the enormity, the idea of hurting someone. Of hurting Frank.

His middle and ring finger, she can likely do at the same time. She'll start there. The plastic seams line up. His pinky is too short; his pointer finger has undergone further transformation. ]

Don't scream.

[ It's said shortly. She isn't talking to him. If she had five minutes, no audience, she could try exerting her will. Lock the kids in the bathroom or something. Alas. ]

Spread your hand. Keep those two together. Opposite of a Vulcan salute.

[ Once he's arranged himself accordingly, Nashua lines up the knife again. Raising it up, the pause between pulling her arm back and bringing it down feels like an eternity. Realistically, it's only a second or two. There's strength from the shoulder in her swing. A scant millimetre or two above the plastic, the knife severs through. Hits the table. Bone splits with a decisive crack that only a trained ear could detect.

Nashua can't hear it above a little girl's wet, muffled, perforated screams. It crashes and ricochets through her skull. Blood pools faintly in the corner of her bruised right eye and scatters with a blink. ]

[terrorisms]

( Don't scream — he can only be expected to assume she's talking to him, and his answer is a short, dismissive huff. It's a fair enough warning, but don't worry kid, he's not gonna.

Doesn't mean it isn't gonna hurt like a god damn bitch, though, and he braces himself with a series of audible, short inhales and exhales. Rapid-fire, bracing, rhythmic — and punctuated by a sharp nod the second he's ready. Do it.

Knife splits skin and flesh and bone, clacking onto the table. The pain is a splintering white hot despite the rubber bands, despite his level of preparation. The guttural noise he makes in the back of his throat is strangled, deep, and swiftly followed by a sharp thunk of his other fist pounding onto the table's surface. Not hard enough to disrupt her set-up, not hard enough to dent, but sharp enough to be jarring. When it doesn't help as much or as immediately as he wants it to, he does it again, twice more, thunk, thunk- venting what he can, until he can smother the rest.

His head ducks. He breathes. )

God- damn it, god-

( Reel it in, Castle. Reel it in. Reel it in, you son of a bitch.

Abruptly, swiftly, he jerks his head toward his hand — more specifically, toward the remaining digits. )

Go. Go on. Keep going. Do the next one, do it-

( Easier to rip the bandage off. Easier to get it done with. No point letting him recover, come down from the adrenaline, just to go through it again. Just do it now. Just get it over with. If they take too long, they're gonna have to pause to deal with too much blood making things sloppy and hard to manage. )

[nashua]

[ The way he pounds against his fist on the table causes her to turn her gaze slightly, but she doesn't flinch. Sudden loud noises aren't some new, novel invention. There's always something rattling around under the bed, or in a closet, or just behind the door. She busies herself quickly scooping up the two severed plastic, blood smeared fingertips — and, yeah, ew — and dropping them carefully in the bucket of ice.

Keep going, he says.

She does his pinky finger next. Lining up the knife to the seam where rough skin meets brittle plastic, she raises her arm. No pause this time. Thwack.

In the corner, the boy is whooping, caught between glee and a boy's juvenile, vocal disgust. He calls her a freak in the same breath as demanding she do it again. The girl, though—

The girl can't take it anymore. The sound she makes when she runs forward is as much two feet pattering against a thinly carpeted floor as much as it is meat slapping wetly against more meat, broken fragments of bone rattling around as if they were encased in a jar and shaken violently. Through what was once a face, she wheezes and sobs and gurgles and yells. Into Nash, and through her; what should be a collision, but isn't a collision. The universe doesn't have a good explanation for this. It both is and isn't. And it fills Nashua with ice water in her throat, with a sudden peaking dread and emptiness so severe she wants to collapse, to close her eyes and forget how to reopen them.

She's used to that, too. But she can't keep her back from tensing, her wrist from wobbling on the downswing. She doesn't make it all the way through Frank's final finger. It requires a second, decisive hit. Thwack.

Over the noise, the girl's agitation finally outs. She's trapped in this childish immaturity, an inability to bear the world's hardships with stoicism. She wails— Daddy.

The knife is laid down, the remaining fingers plucked up and placed into the bucket of ice. ]

[terrorisms]

( The second to last finger goes with little to no reaction from Frank other than a full-bodied tension singing through every muscle and joint. His mouth clamps closed so tight, no sound can escape. It's only experience that keeps him from biting his own tongue by mistake. Awful, but manageable.

The last finger hits a tipping point when she's gotta take a second whack. One of his boots jerks forward under the table, slamming into the table leg, jostling everything on its surface. Fortunately, Nash already set the knife down, so no slips ensue. Wouldn't want to accidentally chop off a finger or something, would we?

Frank's body lists back in the chair, and then falls forward in a deliberate downward descent until he's nearly pressing his forehead against the bloodied surface of the table. Teeth grit tight, a muscle in his jaw thumping out a steady rhythm, and a low, horrible hum dragging its way over rusty vocal cords — a miserable mmm of aggressively stifled pain.

His little girl never had to see him like this. Neither of his kids ever had to see him like this. He wouldn't blame her a bit for losing it. Might smack the backside of his son's head a little over his irreverent attitude about the whole thing, but seeing as he's Frank's kid, it's no wonder his threshold for violence is a little higher than average. Couldn't blame him for that either.

It's better that he doesn't know yet. Better that he doesn't have them in mind during all this. Stick to one type of pain at a time, yeah?

Two, three, four seconds of just grappling with it, and then Frank reels himself back upright again, breathless, steely. )

Good girl. That's good- good work. You're doin' great, alright. Almost done. Hard part's over, just the wrap-job now. Come on.

( The smell of copper is familiar. The lancing pain is familiar. Grounding, almost. Thinking about these two things is easier than thinking about what in the hell he's gonna do if they can't reattach these fingers in the next couple days. He can shoot left-handed. Driving left-handed's fine, the van's an automatic, but- shit. Shit. )

[nashua]

Drink your water.

[ The glass, now somewhat frosted and dewy, had shaken a bit when his foot hit the table. Some water sloshed over the side, dampening the bloodied dishtowel. Part of her thinks, distantly, that it was really fucking gross that they did this where Frank eats. Her face is pale and dour, her lips pressed together and devoid of colour.

Grabbing the roll of bandage and adhesive from the IFAK, she wraps up the severed stumps of his hand neatly and efficiently. I have no personal context for this, don't feel like Googling it, and will not be describing it. It happens. Boom.

The knife is given a quick scrub before being tossed in the little garbage under the sink. There's no way she's letting him use that for cooking now.

The fridge hums and crackles as the door is pulled open. Glass clinks as she pulls out two bottles of beer that she did not buy, while in this place she does not live. It takes a few strong twists plus the additional friction of a fistful of shirt wrapped around the caps to get the bottles to pop open. One is set down in front of Frank, although she will gently shift it out of reach if he hasn't drank the water yet.

The other is hers, obviously. She drops back down into the chair, uncaring that it isn't even noon yet. ]

Sorry. [ Said after a sip. ] About that last one.

[terrorisms]

( The order earns her the faintest flash of an arched eyebrow, but he's a little preoccupied suffering through the sensation of bleeding amputated finger stumps to make any smart ass commentary about it. No yes ma'am is forthcoming.

For what it's worth, he does take a few careful swallows eventually — only after she's done the very thorough and technical job of bandaging him up, artfully and accurately explained by both extremely competent and knowledgeable parties who totally didn't phone that part in.

When she's done, he slumps down low in the chair, scooting it around until the back presses against the wall. There he reclines, resting the crown of his head against the shitty wallpaper and closing his eyes for a few long, fortifying seconds. They crack open only minutely when she brings them each a beer, and then close again. Yeah, he's gonna need that — but he doesn't reach for it immediately.

In a minute. In a minute.

Sorry about that last one gets waved away with one rose-blossom red blemished bandage where his fingers used to be. She's not a surgeon, not a nurse, not a soldier. Frankly, she did a hell of a lot better than he expected her to... which is what ultimately prompts him to clear his throat, unstick his vocal cords, and rasp a few words at her. )

What aren't you telling me, Nashville? ( He slits those eyes open again, studying her lazily without lifting his head. A few assessing moments, and then he'll add: ) People don't just keep their shit together like that the first time they cut into a person. You looked at blood and bone and meat like it was nothin'. How'd you do it?

[nashua]

[ The question causes her stomach to turn over. Sure, her hands had been steady then — now, there's a faint tremble running through her knuckles. Thank fuck for morning beers; the cool bitterness of fermented hops is very soothing as it goes down her throat.

A shrug. Pretending it's all casual. She'll give him the truth, just not all of it. ]

My mom was an ER nurse, handling triage. She couldn't always get childcare. I'd tag along on her overnights sometimes.

[ A great situation to put a kid in? Probably not. But life has sharp corners. ]

I was pretty into it. Actually thought I wanted to be a surgeon for a bit. [ Another sip of beer. ] My shit math grades put an end to that.

[ Now that the excitement has passed, the kids are much less reactive. They flicker in and out of her awareness, the strength of their personalities fading back into the molecules of water in the air. Faintly, she hears a girl's admonishing — something she heard from her mom, maybe. "We don't swear in this house!" ]

[terrorisms]

( As far as explanations go, it's a good one. A fleeting look of understanding passes through his expression, and he seems to settle back against the wall again, evidently content with her answer. It makes sense. Hell of a thing to put a kid through, but life's shit sometimes. An ER nurse struggling with childcare isn't exactly far-fetched, and there are definitely worse ways for a girl like her to get desensitized to violence, all things considered. )

Before I enlisted, I wanted to be a professional baseball player. ( You know, when he was a dumb kid with dumb dreams. He holds up his lame hand and dryly rounds it out with: ) Guess that's off the table now.

( And he'd have been a better hockey player anyway. You don't get to beat the shit out of nearly as many people in baseball.

That'd be another dollar in the swear jar if he put a voice to it. The whole initiative began as a futile dream to keep Frank Jr. from picking up on his father's worse habits, but at the end of the day Lisa's the only one that really abided by the rule. Diligent as she was about policing it, there must've been a couple hundred dollars in that damn jar by the end, and he still caught that kid swearing when he thought nobody was listening. )

[nashua]

[ A faint huff of laughter, a shake of her head. ]

Shi—

[ Oh, right. Her eyes dart to the left for only a flicker of a second before she censors herself. Sorry, girlie. ]

Stuff's hard, man. I did three years of varsity basketball, four years of college ball. When the draft came to my school, the WNBA didn't look twice.

[ That had been... fine. Sure, she was terrible at math and had been on the mediocre middle-to-end ranking of her basketball team, but at least she also got to be harassed by restless spirits. Who's the real winner? Faintly aware she's only described missed opportunities, failures, little disadvantages that snowball— Well, she's both a terrible liar and a reluctant one, which doesn't leave much else. She's fine being unimpressive. ]

[terrorisms]

( That little bout of self-censorship gets a faintly amused look, but he doesn't call her on it. Figures maybe she's gotta kick the habit for her job or something, can't imagine any other reason a grown ass adult would bother. Then again, he's got a somewhat skewed perspective of the average adult's swearword vocabulary, what with spending almost two decades in the marines.

The WNBA didn't look twice — he scoffs once, in surprisingly good humor despite the pain still radiating through his brutalized hand. )

Yeah, you don't say. What are you, five foot five? You'd have to be a goddamn prodigy to make up for those missing inches, kid.

( Hell, she could've been, it's not like he knows. Just seems like a pretty safe assumption that without an extra six on her, she'd be hard-pressed to make the cut.

The pain's beginning to ebb, slowly, mostly imperceptibly, but each heartbeat throb shoots a couple fewer daggers through him. God damn, he hopes the reattaching business goes a little smoother. They got robots for that shit here, he's heard. Limb reattachment's an outpatient procedure, practically. Still gonna cost him out the ass, but at least he's only paying one clinic bill instead of two.

He makes to reach for the kit — right handed, so the movement's automatic, default. Only realizes it a second later, huffs out a sigh, and swaps to go digging through the kit with his left, seeking out a little meager bottle of painkillers. This over the counter stuff's barely gonna put a dent in it, but it's better than nothing. He'll hold the bottle against his chest with an arm, twist the cap off with his left, and swallow down a handful without even bothering to count 'em. Chase them down with a swig of his beer.

Only once they're all the way down does he finally come around to rasping out a little gratitude. )

Thank you. I know that was a lot, but you did good. I appreciate it. I don't know how bad it would'a been if it spread, and I'm happier never finding out.

[nashua]

I'm five nine!

[ It's said with laughter of disbelief, a playful indignation for something she won't care about in five seconds. She might be closer to five eight and three-quarters; he isn't wrong that her height was a partial disqualifying factor.

When he starts popping pills, she watches him carefully. She almost reaches out and takes the bottle from him, but he ends up not needing her help.

Well, good. She has two jobs, she's too busy to drive around Miss Daisy over here.

The gratitude is a bit of a surprise. It makes her a bit uncomfortable, telegraphed by the way she digs her fingers into the back of her neck. She's happy she helped, but not happy that she helped this way. She's slowly realising that Panorama isn't good for her, and she's not what the city is looking for. The people here come pre-hardened, with superpowers or military history or advanced weapons training. Her arrival here can only be an accident.

Not that any of that means Nash would have told Frank no. He needed her help. End of story, end of sentence.

With some put on casualness, ] Yeah, don't mention it.

[ You did good. She's okay with hearing that... but she's happy to move on. ]

You shouldn't take that stuff on an empty stomach, you know. Did you have breakfast?

[terrorisms]

( The look on his face and the sweep of his hand both clearly read: five five, five nine, same difference. Which is an easy thing for a man of roughly 6'2 to say, and it's not even remotely valid, but it is the way of Dad Humor to dismiss such insignificant things as 'logic' in favor of harmlessly giving somebody shit when the opportunity arises.

Clocks that the gratitude makes her uncomfortable, though. There's a seed of an old impulse, buried in the dirt, fleeting but threatening to root: the instinct to point it out. Have a conversation about it. Tell her exactly why she should accept it, own it. Prop her up a little.

He doesn't. She's twenty-five years old. He calls her kid because everyone under 30 is a kid to him, but she is, in actuality, a grown ass woman. He's not her guardian, not her mentor, and not the guy that needs to be out here chanting girl power at some young woman he's been swearing up and down he won't let himself form any real attachments to. Of course, it's hard not to jot down amputation as an experience that begets a certain permanent familiarity by default, but he's not acknowledging that right now.

Blame his sentimentality on the blood loss and the way he's swallowed down half a beer on top of it. Coupled with, wouldn't you know it, an absolute lack of breakfast. )

Kinda had other priorities on my plate that ranked a little higher than waffles.

[nashua]

[ Swearing up and down is a strangely high concentration of effort, my guy.

That's enough to get Nash to swing up from her chair. She keeps the beer close to hand, of course; if she's going to day drink between shifts, she's going to do it properly. The fridge opens with a faint unsticking sound, with various items being nudged out of the way as she paws through the selection. It's definitely a man's fridge: there's plenty of beer left over, a mid-sized jar of protein powder, two slightly stale hot dog buns still in the plastic wrapping, and an empty milk jug. She opens it to see what's in there. When the answer turns out to be nothing, the jug is put back into its spot in the fridge.

Finding a half-empty carton of eggs and sausages only slightly passed their expiration date is a nice bit of convenience for an otherwise sticky morning. He has no oil to fry it with, or if he does he's put it somewhere weird, but she scrapes off a bit of butter from a half-unwrapped stick of it to almost the same effect.

It takes less than a minute to get everything to a sizzle on the stovetop. Because she's a monster, everything is cooked simultaneously in a single pan. There's no spatula available but she wields a cracked wooden spoon like Jimi Hendrix treats his guitar. Did she ask how Frank likes his eggs? No. He's getting them scrambled. ]

Can I ask you something, Franklin?

[terrorisms]

( Yeah, well, Frank Castle has this issue of getting too invested in people. It's not common, it takes a specific kind of person and a specific kind of circumstances, but when they line up just right a new name gets etched into his very short list of people he's overly committed to whether they want him to be or not. Nash keeps slotting herself up in the right place at the right time to qualify, and he's adamant about not letting her.

Except the type of girl to make herself at home, raid his fridge, judge his groceries, and cook him breakfast all without asking or thinking twice is exactly the type of stubborn, headstrong, and kind that he can't help but feel protective over. That's the kind of thing a bad life in a bad city will try and snuff out, and he can't bring himself to let that happen if he can help it.

It's a real god damn conundrum, one he figures he's earned the right to ignore at least for today, what with brutalizing his dominant hand into a fingerless stump and all. )

Shoot.

( He rasps affirmatively, and if there's the faintest element of this outta be good written in there, well... whatever, sue him. )

[nashua]

[ Is she going to ask about the children-shaped elephant literally in the room? The answer to that is no, with a side helping of absolutely not. He didn’t ask her to come over with the assumption she would be privy to something so painful, so personal. There aren’t many times when whatever-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-her leads to her just taking a sledgehammer to other people’s privacy, but it has happened. As far as Nashua is concerned, it is his to share, or not share; and not hers to intrude upon.

As for the question that is lingering, she almost drops it. He’s had a rough morning.

Almost, because, well — ]

Why did you ask me?

[ She bites down on the assumption that he has his Manly Buddies For Manly Things Like (IDK) Fly Fishing that would happily pull a forty piece swiss army knife out of their M65 jackets and go to town on his fingers. It’s still there, she just decides against voicing it. ]

Sounds like you didn’t even expect me to keep my— [ Oh, right. No swearing. She seamlessly course corrects. ] Keep it together.

[ The stovetop is switched back off as she scrapes everything off the pan and onto a plastic plate. A bit of salt, a bit of pepper, and then the breakfast plate is set down on the table, tucked tidily under his nose. ]

[terrorisms]

( It's a great question. There are other people he could've gone to. He doesn't have Logan's number, but he knows how to track the guy down. Knows where he eats. Probably would've found him at the diner. He's got Clint's number, Clint's no stranger to cutting off body parts, he's a goddamn Avenger.

But he's only met up with the guy twice, and while they got on great both times, it felt more professional than personal. Calling him up for help with a job is different than calling him up for a personal favor.

In the end, the answer's simple: )

I trust you.

( Which pretty much blows his whole being in denial about attachments thing clean out of the water. Damn, he was really hoping to cling to that flimsy pretense for a little while longer. He can't even pretend like he's surprising himself with his own answer, either, because he's not. )

And I knew you could do it, I just didn't know you could do it that good. ( A beat, a shrug, and a last-second addition of: ) Plus, you owed me one.

[nashua]

Alright. Don’t get emotional on me.

[ It’s wry, a bit teasing, as she hides her smile behind another sip of beer.

He trusts her. It’s weird. It’s nice, obviously, but it’s also weird. A bit weighty. Part of her is warmed by something so simple, so genuine; part of her wants to shake it off, warn him that she’s a bit of a disaster (also known as being twenty-five years old) and barely keeping her chin above water in Panorama.

Anyway! She nudges his closest chair leg very lightly with her foot. Nothing that would risk jostling his injured hand. ]

I’m not leaving until you eat.

[terrorisms]

( Don’t get emotional on me; the snort is immediate, dismissive, and accompanied by a roll of his eyes. Evidently so unworthy of dignifying with a response, he fully just shifts in his chair and goes digging around for the fork instead. Shut the hell up, Nashville.

Look. He's eating, see?

One very deliberate, very pointed fork-full of breakfast conglomerate gets shoveled in between his teeth with a clack, military efficiency in the dining hall at its finest.

And so it goes that they sit companionably while Frank powers through a left-handed breakfast, a bucket of his own fingers nearby to keep them company. In terms of amputations, this one's not likely to be the worst one he goes through in his life. Wasn't even that bad, if you ignore the complete loss of functionality in his hand and all the excruciating pain. )