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

[carcajous]

[ That answers any questions he had.

When Frank comes into the diner, there's a body to match the gunshot, sprawled on the greasy tiles in between the little area that divides the counter from the rest of the space. The amount of blood is startlingly little: a small trickle, no brain matter splattered on the ground, no exit wound. He looks unconscious more than dead.

But the bullet hole is unmistakable, lodged as deep as it can go. If Frank's not distracted by his plastic doppelgänger—wherever it's gone—he'll notice the flattened bullet sort of worm its way out, eventually clattering onto the ground. It's a few seconds of dead silence, maybe longer, where Logan's still out cold.

Then his eyes snap open. He bolts upright hard and fast—and if Frank's leaned in too close, there's a chance somebody's getting knocked in the face. Probably both of them. ]

[terrorisms]

( Frank Castle is not an easy man to render into inaction in a combat scenario. It is, in fact, borderline impossible. Evidently, the secret sauce that does it is seeing a half-faced mannequin copy of himself pointing a gun at the fallen corpse of somebody he's been developing what can loosely be called a camaraderie with. It stills him in the yawning diner entryway for two long seconds, as he struggles to process what in the name of Christ he's looking at, but before the bullet starts working its way out of Logan's forehead again, his eyes — and the barrel of his rifle — lift to take aim at the uncanny facsimile of himself.

His finger's on the trigger. The shot's lined up perfectly. It would take no effort whatsoever for him to blow this fucking thing away.

The muscle of his trigger finger, normally so eager to twitch, flexes and then stills, refusing to bend. Four or five paces away, the mannequin with his lips begins to smile. Levels the handgun at Frank in turn, a mirror. And then, from its croaking plastic throat, it says only one barely-intelligible word: )

Bang.

( Frank braces for what he immediately knows will follow. Resigns himself in an instant to taking another bullet to the brain — but coming from any version of himself, this time it won't miss the parts that make a man truly dead.

Logan bolts up to his feet, the swinging countertop door flying up with him, knocking the trajectory of the gun upward. The handgun round lodges itself into the ceiling, and the gun clatters to the floor. Frank and the mannequin lunge for it simultaneously in eerie, identical movements. )

[carcajous]

[ Logically, he knows what's going on. The mimicry, the doppelgängers, he did encounter the whole thing once not long ago. Still don't make waking up to see double any less baffling. So for a split second, he's also staring, blinking at what the hell is unfolding in front of him. The acrid bite of gunpowder and lead fills the air.

When did the other one get here?

The two Franks pile toward him—the gun, he realizes—and in the dark, in the middle of a scuffle, he hasn't got the time to look for the right target. Normally it wouldn't matter, normally he'd know in an instant. Would react without thinking about it. But they smell alike. It's fucking confusing they smell exactly alike. Twins don't smell alike; this is something else, something so eerily wrong that a part of his brain can't reconcile it.

He launches himself at the both of them, throwing all of his unnatural weight behind the momentum to try and knock them away, get the gun out of the picture. He might be able to take a bullet to the face, but he's positive Frank can't, and right now, he isn't willing to test that theory. ]

[terrorisms]

( It works, and it works for one massively simple reason: when Frank sees the movement of a second body headed toward him, it's reflex to move to accommodate it. He's used to taking on multiple opponents at once, and swiftly reeling himself away before he can get taken to the ground is as naturally as breathing. The mannequin, on the other hand, has a singular focus and intention. It wants to get its hands on Frank, or on the gun, and nothing else matters. It is blind to everything but the thought that drives it.

Where Frank dances back, Logan dead-ass yeets the mannequin, bodying it across the diner and sending it careening into — practically through — a table. One of its arms twists fully backward in its socket, sticking out impossibly behind it. The metal feet screech against the floor, and the gun goes skidding wildly, skating across tile until it bounces uselessly off the bottom of a booth seat by the windows.

Now would be the ideal time to capitalize on its broken stance. Any other time, any other fight, he could jump in and be on the thing. Snap a neck. Break a limb. He wants to with every bone in his body, but that doesn't change the way his boots plant themselves on the floor and refuse to take so much as a single step toward the fucking thing. He tries again, futilely, to raise his rifle up and take aim, but he cannot pull the trigger. )

God damn it!

( It's a half-feral sounding guttural snarl, a barking Rottweiler in pitch and tone. Release comes in the form of furiously flinging a chair in some random, mindless direction with a clatter — not nearly enough, and it doesn't solve jack shit.

It's a fun thing to learn that the mannequin's survival instincts are, apparently, stronger than Frank's. Were it him, he'd commit to this fight until there was nothing left, but the poor plastic imitation has seen enough. It knows the Other One is not its friend. It knows the Other One can survive bullets. And it knows that there is still more to take from the man who is feeding it, and it will be much harder to take if it kills him. There will only be so much left, and it wants the eyes.

Rather than fighting, rather than trying to skirt Frank and run out the door, it simply smashes its face directly into the window by the booth table, shattering it and sending glass raining down, embedding shards into its own eye indentations, into its clothes, into its everything. With one arm still jutting out at a distressing, unhinged angle, it vaults through the broken window. Frank watches it from down his rifle sight, aiming, but never firing. )

[carcajous]

[ Logan, too, is laser-focused. On the clone, specifically, now that its twisted body and the real Frank at his back makes it easy to tell them apart.

It turns for the window; Logan scrambles over a table to grab it before it can run, equally heedless of the glass that scatters over them or the jagged shards jutting out. His claws don't miss, precisely. He cleaves through a foot—or a hand or something—and tears a chunk out of the window frame in the process. But it doesn't stop. Doesn't hesitate. It keeps going, slipping free like a lizard shedding its own tail to escape. ]

Fuck.

[ He watches it go. Frank could take a shot, could gun it down while it beelines through the sparse late-night traffic. For some reason, he chokes. (That doesn't make any kind of sense. What stopped him?)

Logan ducks back out from under the shattered window. The diner's a mess of splintered wood and glass, blood staining the tiles. Bullet hole in the ceiling. He isn't thinking about the damage right now, though. He's thinking they should go after that thing before it hurts somebody who can be hurt.

Except it's probably long gone. Didn't manage to chase down Karen's, either. He's not sure what it is that lets them melt away like that, but it's a pain in the ass. ]

You okay?

[terrorisms]

( Frank learns a whole lotta something in a very short span of time. Barely got his rifle lowered before his attention's wholly deviated from the weapon over to Logan — Logan with metal claws protruding from his knuckles. Logan who shreds his skin on glass, but between one heartbeat and the next the wounds have already closed and begun to disappear.

Logan who's name he still doesn't even know yet, and clearly that's not even remotely the most important thing he doesn't know about this man.

He's still pissed, furious, pumped full of adrenaline and the desire to keep tracking a thing he now knows he can't even kill, but he can shift all that to the backseat for a second. )

Am I okay? You took a god damn bullet to the head. Crowbar's one thing, but that...

( He'd know. The time he took one to the skull, he was one strong breeze away from eating applesauce through a tube until the flat line finally set in. )

Man, you were dead on the floor when I walked in. What the hell?

[carcajous]

[ What? Oh. Admittedly, in the chaos, he forgets people here have questions about his deal again as opposed to just slapping a bright red sticker onto him that says mutant.

His expression shifts to vague exasperation. He has one hand on his hip, claws retracted; the other lifts into the air in the universal signal for, Dunno what to tell ya. ]

I heal. [ Which isn't the most satisfying explanation but it's what he's got. ] And I wasn't dead, it's...look, it's a long story. [ He sets the thrown chair upright again, as though it's gonna do anything to help the state of this place. ] You wanna ask questions, ask 'em while we look for your cardboard cutout.

[ Where'd—? He picks up the handgun and hands it to its proper owner. He assumes. Maybe it snatched it off somebody else. He's seen Frank fight. Briefly, but he's seen it. And he's seen the mannequin apparently feel zero pain. The combo doesn't bode well for whichever unlucky bastard runs into it next.

He pushes open the door, a glance over his shoulder. No, Frank hasn't asked him to come, but Logan's also not asking if he can come. He's looking for that thing one way or another. ]

[terrorisms]

( I heal, he says, like it's the easiest thing in the world — and you know what? Maybe it is. Aliens rained down on New York, and the Hulk smashed its way across the city, and there's a man that dresses like a spider slinging web at bad guys, and Frank's lawyer is a blind Catholic ninja that fights crime. )

Did I miss the day they handed out superpowers to every other asshole on the street, or what?

( It's a low, unhappy grumble, groused while he reaches out to take that handgun from Logan. That's about as much of a reaction as he gives for now, before kicking into gear and striding out the door behind the guy. Handgun goes in his thigh holster, rifle hangs from a strap on one shoulder, scowl hugs his lips.

Where's his magic spider-bite, or radioactive waste accident, or whatever the hell it takes to shortcut bullet wounds? And speaking of horseshit magic powers — )

That thing, I don't know how it's doing it, but I can't hit it. I don't know if it's- psychic, mind control, some defense mechanism- something. The second I even think about making a move, I get locked up.

( Because the relevant intel is more pressing than his questions. Higher priority to get that out there, so if they spot it Logan isn't relying on him to take a shot he can't take. He can help track it, he can maybe help herd it, but he doesn't think he's gonna be able to be the one to put it down.

Which means he's gonna owe this guy one hell of a favor real soon, hopefully. )

[carcajous]

Yeah, you didn't get the notice on your door?

[ If he'd had any lingering doubts about Frank being a plain and simple human, that basically puts them to rest. Still, the man's not looking at him like he's a liar or like he's dropped some kinda bomb.

He absorbs the detail, confirmation that it's something to do with the mannequin fucking with the man's reaction. Was Karen the same? Hard to say. She isn't a soldier, isn't a trained fighter. He wouldn't expect her not to hesitate. Frank's a different story, though, and if he says he locked up for no reason, Logan believes him. He just hasn't experienced this thing himself. Which is weird. He was riding out in the Fringes for a week, maybe more, and he came back with nothing unusual. No plastic doppelgänger hanging around him. Nobody wearing his face.

Guess he got lucky. Or rather, everybody else got lucky 'cause Logan has no clue what the fuck he was gonna do if a version of him was slashing its way across the city. ]

Before you walked in, it was sitting there, eating off an empty plate. Think it wanted me to join. [ Pure mimicry. ] So if it was you, where'd you go to make your next move?

[terrorisms]

( He realizes what Logan's getting at before he's even halfway through with the question, and almost instantly a ripple of frustration and resignation runs through him. If this thing really is him, or some semblance of him, if it's driven by his own instincts and impulses, this shit's about to get real god damn annoying. )

I'd go underground. ( He answers unhappily, with a reasonable amount of confidence. ) Go dark, some place defensible and damn-near impossible to find. Set up perimeter defenses and wait for the heat to blow over before I got armed again.

( Nobody knows what a pain in the ass Frank Castle can be when he's being hunted quite as much as Frank Castle does. )

Gonna be someplace that's easy to access but a real bitch to sweep. Subway tunnels, sewers, large apartment complexes, worksites, warehouses. Question is just exactly how intelligent the thing is. Either it's dumb enough to pick the first one I'd think of, or it's smart enough to find a way to pick one without bringing logic into the equation.

( Take predictability off the table, so Frank can't follow its train of thought to the most likely conclusions.

Occurs to him that he's outing himself as a hyper-vigilant, unnaturally paranoid son of a bitch to his new friend here, but that was bound to come up sooner or later, probably. )

[carcajous]

[ In retrospect, Logan's realizing he could've taken the wily route, pretended to eat breakfast with it and act like nothing was wrong until he could lead it somewhere, trap it, kill it. But those are far too many steps ahead for him to chart; it was never gonna happen.

Whatever. They'll find it. Somehow.

He pauses on the sidewalk, then cuts across through the gap in traffic. A snort. The reality of what Frank is telling him is unsurprising but no less annoying. ] You couldn't have been a guy happy to sit at home with a book?

[ He considers the short scuffle he had with the eyeless Frank, the way it failed to dodge his tackle, then fled straight out a window with wild desperation. Hell, it didn't actually attack him until he provoked it.

Slowly, he shakes his head. ] I doubt it's playing chess. It was reactive, like an animal. When it got backed into a corner, it ran.

[ So probably first thing it thinks of then. Unless it's evolving. Shit, he hopes it isn't getting smarter by the minute. ]

[terrorisms]

( The bitch of it is, he is happy to sit at home with a book. Well, happy might be a strong word, but it's technically a thing he does often enough that it ought to count. It's just that when it comes to shit like this, he's an unhinged, indescribably extra human equivalent of a Rube Goldberg machine. But, you know. With murder instead of dominoes.

Animalistic is good. Acting on instinct and emotion instead of complex strategy is good. Makes it easier to hazard educated guesses, like the thought that it'd want to give them the slip hard and fast, and a foot chase through populated buildings where it might leave an obvious trail isn't the way to do it. )

Keep an eye out for manhole covers. See if any look like they've been moved.

( Dropping down into the sewer system and getting lost in a complex maze where most people don't bother to tread feels like the first go-to move. Easy to pop right back up again somewhere it wants to be once the coast is clear.

His eyes sweep the street in the direction that thing ran — though what in the good god damn a manhole cover looks like on another planet in another dimension full of cosmic storms and android people and wizards and shit is another question.

While their eyes search and their stride carries them both purposefully forward, he figures now's as good a time as any to lob out one of those questions Logan mentioned a minute ago. )

So metal claws, huh? Somethin' tells me those aren't CAF standard issue.

[carcajous]

[ His forehead wrinkles. So much for getting some sleep. Now he's looking at running around in the sewers for the next two hours. The biggest pain in the ass? He can't even track it his usual way. It smells like Frank and he's got a Frank walking on his left, so as far as his nose is concerned, the thing he's searching for is right beside him.

This late at night, it's not deserted, but it is quieter, the air filled with buzzing neon lights and tiny feet scurrying behind the alleyways. Funny. He doesn't expect Frank to actually start asking—the man's more walled off than Logan is, which is saying something—and Logan's realizing they've exchanged more words tonight than they ever did over a game of pool. Not that he minds. All things considered, he likes Frank, in that way you can like a guy solely for being the most noninvasive presence you could ask for.

He lets out a dry chuckle. ] Your government, actually. I don't remember a whole lot. Pretty sure they wanted it that way.

[ Been a while since he ran off chasing the holes in his past. These days, it...maybe he just doesn't need those answers as much. What's it matter anymore? If he had a family, they're long dead. If he had friends he forgot, they're long dead. He's got more important things, more important people, to look out for now. But he won't pretend it doesn't bother him, especially when he's got somebody like Wade Wilson popping up who seems to know far more about him than he knows about himself. ]