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

⏾ mannequins, open

[vestments]

ONE.

( in panorama, marc's mannequin busies itself in much the same way that marc tends to busy himself, and unfortunately for marc, his tendency to cover himself from head-to-toe and to keep conversation to a minimum means it's difficult to discern whether what's being dealt with is him or whether it's something wearing him as a disguise.

the mask doesn't help, either. it's crude, like it's perhaps been made out of bedsheets or a pillowcase, with a red crescent moon drawn on the forehead in — blood? maybe, or maybe it's just red pen — either way, don't worry about it too much.

while marc's attentions have been focused predominantly on thugs, on low-grade, low-rent criminals and the odd request for help posted on the forum, the mannequin is much less discerning. it can be found inciting — or is that inviting? — a fight in an alley, or breaking and entering into motel rooms — yours? a neighbour's? — to steal cash and valuables and weapons alike, and where marc has left spray-painted crescent moons here and there, infrequent but noticeable, the mannequin leaves them each and every time, a little from me to you, moon knight.

he — it — errs towards brutal, not seeming to care how he leaves those he has altercations with — or, even, what it might do to him. there are those that get left tied up, fairly minimal as far as things go, but then there are those that get branded — on occasion it's a crescent moon cut into clothing, sometimes it's more permanent. in any case and whichever circumstance, if he's interrupted, he'll pause, uncanny plastic eyes seeming to glow in the dark and he'll offer a low, ) Nice night.

TWO.

( marc, meanwhile, takes reports of the mannequin's activities with a stunning lack of grace. he's more irritable, more short-tempered, he's sleeping less — a remarkable feat, really, given how little he tends to sleep in general.

he's read the forum, he knows there's a chance it's just — just! — a mannequin, something impersonating, pretending to be him, but that doesn't stop the doubt, doesn't stop the worry that some of it is him. it's what he's done before, isn't it? it's what he does, just— with less care. it's less deliberate. and after the temple, after the silence from whatever called that place its home and the silence from khonshu, it's—

—not like it'd be a surprise.

and so, much like the mannequin, marc can often be found on the streets of panorama, almost always at night, almost always dressed in white. he favours his right side, although it's unclear whether it's thanks to an injury — hey, given the reports, it seems likely, right? — or whether a limb's more plastic than it had been when he'd first returned from the mall.

doubt as to what's him and what's it means his focus is entirely on finding it. maybe you come across him when he's stood over an unconscious runner, truncheon in hand. he's still, tense, and he whips round as soon as he senses someone present. )

You shouldn't be here. ( tight, tired, as much a warning as a threat.

or perhaps you get a careful, appraising— ) Are you looking for Moon Knight?

( or maybe you find marc crouched at the edge of a rooftop. his truncheon's set to one side, oddly clean, oddly bright, seemingly ignored. it could be that he's studying the street below, but there's equally a chance he's lost in thought. it might be to himself, then, that he says— ) I'm gonna kill it. ( sharp and vitriolic.

or wildcard it! )

one

[longtooth]

[ Fern hasn't been back in the city for long. Those trips out to the diffusion zones had been long, this time, and with no shortage of eventfulness. The creature with the spotlight that killed anything that moved, the confusion caused by the shadow-people in the mall, and the strangeness of the temple — all of it has left her worn out, exhausted, and not eager to venture out for some time.

No, maybe she would be better off simply focusing on her job for now, mundane as it is to make up beds and serve meals in what functions as an "inn," in this city. Something slightly nicer than a motel, if out of her own price range for the moment.

She's done with her shift and on her way back to where Adrian last parked his car, but it's the middle of the night by now. That's not usually enough to worry Fern much, she's more than capable of handling herself when dealing with the typical thug who might think she's an easy mark, but something is different tonight.

She keeps feeling like something's watching her, or like she's spotted the outline of a figure from the corner of her eye, lingering at the end of a vacant street, only to turn and find nothing.

Something in her veins tells her to just continue on, to push forward to the closest thing she has to safety for now, but then she does hear something, a commotion coming from down a dark alleyway. The brutal smack of flesh against flesh, the faint splatter of spilled blood. It isn't her problem, it truly isn't her problem, and yet—

She casts a glance down the dark alley as she passes by it, at least, and that's when she sees something familiar. It's a man in a stark white outfit, one she'd seen from a distance once before — all the way back at the mall. He'd been attacking someone then too, someone who was pleading with him or trying to reason with him from what she could tell, but by the time she hurried down from a higher floor of the mall, he'd been gone.

Now, here he is, crouched over someone else, his victim beaten black-and-blue. Worse than that, he's carving something into the person's arm — a sigil of some kind?

He turns and addresses her as if there's nothing strange about what he's doing, and Fern tenses, already grabbing for her dagger. ]

What do you think you're doing?! Let them go! [ She can't be sure that this person, the object of the masked man's ire, is truly innocent. (The person in the mall might have been, though.) But she can see that what he's doing is a step too far, that he's clearly mining some sick enjoyment from it, and she can't simply move on and let it happen. ]

[vestments]

( the mannequin's gaze doesn't drop and it doesn't blink; there's no comprehension in its expression and there's no lack of it, either. it just is, although it does shift its weight enough that the man pinned beneath him is released. what do you think you're doing?, the girl — woman? someone not like him — had exclaimed, and the mannequin doesn't quite know how to put into words that it's doing precisely what it was made to do. he's marc spector, moon knight, a primal force stripped of emotion — isn't he?

in the brief silence, there's a groan, and the mannequin looks down at the man. enough has been done—, and so he steps over the body — still alive, still breathing, and closes the distance between himself and fern. marc prefers to leave them alive when he can, but he doesn't always succeed, and HE isn't that precious. the lack of willingness to kill is relatively recently, a trait that ebbs and flows — waxes and wanes with the phases of the moon? no, not quite — but he knows how thin the line is, between want and relief and shame and regret, and— ) He deserved it.

( a blunt remark carrying marc's accent, his cadence, and it's punctuated by a hand brushing at its jacket. it doesn't look comfortable, doesn't quite look natural, but it might not be easy to tell why beneath dirty, flickering neon lights, might be easy to explain away as an injury based on the trail of blood left behind. ) Vengeance. Protecting the travellers of the night. ( it's not as articulate as marc would be, perhaps, but it's a reflection of the reasoning.

there's a pause. it'd be weighted, heavy if the mannequin were anything else, but as it is it's just quiet. ) You're a daughter of the sun.

( well. she might not be, but the closest it can get in terms of recognition is a memory that isn't his, an echo of a conversation held between god and avatar. the cat-woman is aligned with the sun. )

[longtooth]

[ Shockingly, the attacker in white does listen to her. The one he'd beaten half to death is left behind, and Fern gets just enough of a glimpse to see the mark of the crescent moon carved into the victim's arm, leaking at the edges.

Serial killers often leave calling cards with their victims. Could this be...?

The masked man approaches her, but it doesn't appear to be with the intent of violence. That, she might have expected, if he didn't want witnesses, but he seems almost... proud of what he's done? It's hard to know, with that mask and the eerie flatness of his voice. The closer he comes to her, the more she tenses, ready to dart forward with her dagger to defend herself.

He deserved it, is the claim, and Fern shoots a glance at the man still crumpled on his side on the hard ground of the alley, clutching his arm and then his battered face. She has no way of knowing that, but she can't keep her attention from the masked man for too long, not when she's still anticipating how this can go further south.

At his assessment of her, she frowns and shakes her head. If she's associated with night or day, she would say night. Not in the way a vampire is, or even a werewolf (appearances aside), but because she is a rogue, an assassin, and night is where she does best. ]

... I don't think so. [ Her reply is uncertain, but mainly she's trying to keep his attention so that maybe the injured man can get to his feet and make a break for it. ] I work better in the night, but that's beside the point. You were attacking someone back at that mall too, weren't you? Just what made any of them deserve it?

wildcard - combo(ish) and lmk if this doesn't work or isn't enough to work with!

[churnback]

[ Amos has been working as a mechanic these last few weeks, but he'd spent some time out in the diffusion zones on his days off, namely in search of that missing girl. The promise of more supplies was nothing to dismiss, too, but — it's the kid he cared about finding most. He'd caught the report when she had been found, didn't see any point sticking out there much longer. He'd grabbed a few things from the mall, and he's just made his way back to the city, back to the motel he's been parked at, the motel that's not far from the view of the real Marc, currently crouched at the edge of a rooftop, unbeknownst to Amos.

He still hasn't gotten a room for himself, though he will soon. Sleeping in his jeep doesn't go easy on him; he's just resentful enough of the debt he's been saddled with to want some money saved up first. And while he could just leave anytime he wanted even if he did rent a room now, it's something about just being in his own jeep and able to move freely that gets him from settling just yet, or even making a home in a room somewhere. This means, though, that this fairly nomadic take on things has him attuned to the comings-and-goings of the people here. He doesn't pay that much attention mostly because he doesn't care what people are doing here, how they're living their life. He just notices who's around, which means someone new pings him. At first, not for any other reason than, alright, new guy. One of many.

— But that white suit stands out.

Amos has reclined his seat back about halfway, enough that he still has a decent view of where the guy is going. How many other people around here are wearing suits like that? So he assumes it's Marc, from the bar; where some might be inclined to step out and get the attention of the guy they'd shared a drink with, maybe of the hey remember me variety, Amos is...not like that. Even if he was, the mask is — something, but not enough to compel any deeper thought; Amos is real 'live your life' about it all. But that changes when he stops in front of Room 210, the room Amos is pretty sure that mom and her kid came in and out of the other day. Unless they left and found a better place — which would be a good thing — the guy has no business — ah, yeah, no, he's definitely breaking in. Amos sits up a little straighter now, staying quiet at first, thinking this through.

If he's just stealing some cash for himself, if it was just the woman there and not her kid, too, he might just settle back and leave it. Doesn't think it's right, stealing like this, but ain't his business usually. But there is a kid involved. There's a mom trying to give them a good life, and that doesn't sit right with him. Amos is waiting to hear voices, but they seem to be out for the night, at least. So Marc's breaking into an empty room to take from them. Didn't seem the type. Well, fuck that.

Amos gets up now, moves right towards the guy and promptly yanks him by the collar, dragging him back out. ]

The hell's your problem? [ Normally, Amos doesn't bother with talking in this kind of situation. This warrants action, immediately so, and words are just unnecessary fluff. The guy needs to leave, now, and not come back. So Amos stands over him, while the guy starts trying to scramble to his feet, and Amos puts a hand on his chest. ] You're gonna leave, you won't come back.

[ He has a lot of questions, too, like — what the fuck, brother, didn't peg you for this. But again, that involves words, and really — what's the point? He clearly misread him. ]

[vestments]

( if it'd been marc, a person, there'd be a strangled choke at the sudden yank, at the way shirt and tie pull back to press sharply into neck, but the mannequin's not that human, and so for a moment, there's nothing other than the scraping of shoes against rough concrete and the twisting of a body trying to escape.

he, it, doesn't have all of marc's memories. it has the ones printed deeply, the ones that helped make the man, the ones marc doesn't talk about — elias, marlene and jean-paul, hospitalisations, and the ones that he does — a death in selima, a temple, khonshu. amos is new, and the mannequin doesn't recall marc's encounter with him at the resort, doesn't recall a conversation about vodka and tequila. all it thinks is that this is a man getting in the way of his mission.

it doesn't blink — it can't — but it does try to stand, even as amos presses a hand to its chest to hold it still, to stop it from escaping. where marc would utter a growl of frustration, the mannequin remains silent and then opts to lean into it the press, raising its chin towards amos. you're gonna leave, amos says, and beneath the mask, the mannequin attempts something that could be classed as a smile, thin and unpleasant. a beat later, and it wraps a hand around amos' wrist, more flexible, more pliant than a mannequin's wrist has any right to be. )

No. ( firm, an echo of marc's accent and cadence, any uncanniness, any not quite right-ness of it all the sort of thing that can be explained by the muffling effect of the mask. it pulls, sharp and sudden, on the arm it's holding, an attempt to pull amos off balance, to pull him to floor.

close quarters is always where marc has excelled, and the mannequin remembers boxing. remembers fights in underground, illegal rings, where money and blood and reputations were traded as one and the same. where crowds would call fights that ended in injury rather than death soft.

the pull, then, is punctuated by a headbutt, the solid thunk of plastic against flesh before the mannequin adds, with no pause for breath (unneeded!), ) You don't make that decision.

[churnback]

[ This — the spark of violence, the building of it from warning to action — this is where Amos is most familiar, most comfortable, maybe. Not for liking it, not for taking pleasure from it, but; when something builds in him, (often things he can't process or understand) this is a release. It's what he knows, how he lived, a child turned weapon on the streets of Baltimore. A man who trusts himself most when there's a problem to be solved and he can do that, easily, with his fist, his body. Violence is always there in the background of his life, a man who has killed, will kill, when he deems it necessary. To him, it's simply a choice to be made like any other, a means to an end, a way to solve a problem if one arises. In this case, he'd prefer not to, but if it's between his own survival and the Marc's, well, that's an easy choice.

Been in enough fights now that he doesn't expect this to be easy. Doesn't expect anything at all, really, except the simple action of cause and effect: someone does a shitty thing — like stealing from a working mother — and that invites the effect of being handled swiftly.

That hand around his wrist doesn't feel like an especially rough grip, and he makes a move to grab at him with his other hand, but then he takes a hit to the head and it knocks him back a little. Enough to daze him briefly, slow him, but not to stop him for long. He yanks his hand back, hard as he can, but rather than shake it free, he twists his hand around in an attempt to bend back Marc's, in the kind of way a wrist shouldn't bend. If Amos injures his own self in the process, so be it. At the same time he attempts to bend his wrist back, Amos moves his other hand towards Marc's throat, trying to wrap it around his, disorient him enough to calm him down. ]

Ain't a decision left to make.

ᴛᴡᴏ;

[terrorisms]

( Marc's not the only one to prowl the streets at night. It's an artful contrast, really; a figure in white, a figure in black — though the latter isn't entirely solid. Across his chest is a splash of white like a seed of yang within yin, presented in the form of a skull emblazoned over a bulletproof vest. He doesn't always wear it in his late night insomnia-driven travails, but things have been particularly unhinged recently.

Walking in on a mannequin dressed like himself putting a bullet into a friend... Catching a glimpse of blonde hair and a familiar jawline on a feminine plastic shape, vanishing at the mouth of an alley, but could swear it looked like-

The point is, these things aren't safe, and if he sees his again, he's gonna do everything in his goddamn power to put it down.

He doesn't find it. What he finds instead is a man standing over an unconscious body, holding a weapon. When Marc whips around, there's a rifle pointed at his face. Warning, threat, Frank doesn't give a shit. His gravel voice sounds unnervingly calm. )

How 'bout that guy you're standing over? Wrong place, wrong time for him, too?

[vestments]

( marc doesn't seem especially perturbed by the gun in his face. there's the barest of glances down, towards frank's hands and then back up. quiet appraisal punctuated by a knitting of brows and an inhale of breath. it's not quite a scoff, and it doesn't make its way to being sigh, but it sounds like the precursor to one or the other, even as marc very deliberately doesn't move. he rarely opts to act first, tends to prefer to take the hit and go from there, to manoeuvre a perceived backfoot into the upper hand, although he's aware that a bullet to the face is a lot harder to come back from than a fist.

but he thinks it says something that the guy hasn't shot first. )

Yes, ( he answers at length, gaze flickering towards the — kid? he looked to be in his twenties, a rough and hard twenties, but in that ballpark all the same. young enough to still feel invincible, old enough to know better.

his tone's as level as frank's, blunt and matter-of-fact. there's no hesitancy, no want to hedge the answer in explanations. no 'it wasn't me', purely on the basis that it could have been and it might have been, that the difference between one man calling himself moon knight and another doing the same is in details no-one but marc is privy to.

the one word seems to be where he's inclined to leave it, the sole of his shoe crunching against rough concrete as he starts, ever so slightly, to turn — a dare, a silent go on, shoot me hanging between them, before—

the white.

the recognition is palpable, there in the odd, jerky way marc catches himself to look at it properly, features twisting in a clear, blatant expression of what the fuck? )

—Punisher?

[terrorisms]

( Frank is good at reading people. Unnervingly so, according to his old CO — a knack for reading body language, an uncanny way of seeing what makes a person tick. It becomes apparent to him very quickly that whoever this guy is, he isn't just Joe Jackass from off the street. Can't tell whether he's a scumbag or not, but it doesn't feel likely that this is as simple as knocking out an easy target to lift a wallet. Maybe he's wrong, but he doesn't think so. Feels like there's something else here, something deeper.

The guy starts to turn; the barrel of his gun drifts faintly downward. Not because he planned on lowering it to let the guy leave, no. Because he was getting ready to put a bullet through one of his knees instead. One chance, one we're not done here, I want answers, and then he'd blow the damn thing out. He doesn't bluff.

The recognition stills his finger on the trigger, puts a pause on those demands.

One hefty beat of silence and then, at length: )

Am I supposed to know who you are?

( Barton's here. The Scarlet Witch is here. Frank's trial was highly publicized and hotly debated for a number of weeks; it's not exactly a stretch that this guy might be from the same New York as three other people here. If that recognition's supposed to go two ways, he's drawing a blank — and really, kind of on the fence about whether or not he should actually give a shit. But they're in another dimension, and the population from his world is small. Might be worth knowing. Might be. )