#RP.

[hellcab]

A week after Buzz's awful nightmare, his mental state had only gotten worse. Now he was certain he was having absence seizures, as he would often express confusion at where he was at random times, and the migraines refused to go away. If he was still human, he probably would have killed himself by now.

Today had just gotten worse than the entire previous week combined.

"ROTH!!!" The hornet roared as he ran up to the cabbie with a pillow in hand. "Roth, I am falling apart at the seams here. I've been putting myself through triple hell just to survive kicking Squip, AND LOOK WHAT I FOUND IN MY FUCKING PILLOW!!!" Reaching into the pillowcase, Buzz yanked out a small plastic baggie filled with familiar blue-green pills.

"I don't know how this happened, Roth! I have no memory of anything anymore, I do not remember getting these! It must've been from that last pill I took when you showed me that memory of myself, I must've resupplied myself while riding that high! I thought I was making actual fucking progress here, AND THIS WHOLE TIME, I'VE BEEN NECK-DEEP IN SHIT AND NEVER EVEN NOTICED IT!!!"

It wasn’t working.

Day by day, Buzz was growing worse by the minute. So far, this going “cold turkey” was going nowhere. So much for the conventional.

Bearing witness, Roth was running out of options to help Buzz. So far, he’s failed at every corner for him. First the nightmare, then his deteriorating sanity. He should have never brought Buzz here. There were other options, other people. People better suited to helping Buzz out than him.

After all, he’s ana addict himself. How can one addict help another? Behind a frail façade, Roth was losing hope. What kind of a friend allows this to happen? He’s hurting Buzz, not helping him. It was the same with everyone else. He ends up hurting them one way or another.

Hearing the scream, Roth came running into the room. There was fear and a touch of panic gracing his eyes. Then, Buzz showed him the bag of Squip. Just when and how did Buzz come across that bag? Did he purchase it? The theory carried weight inside Roth’s own speculative mind.

All he knew was how badly it scared Buzz. How demoralizing it was for him to find it. More and more, Roth hated wishing to see his friend fail. He hated seeing him like this.

“Okay, calm down. Just breathe, okay, breathe deeply. Just . . . give me the bag okay. I will flush it down and you won’t have to see it again.”

He stepped forward, his hand reaching out for the bag.

[carcosa-lost]

Midnight Silence

@nebula-gaster

The television was consumed with static. Dead asleep, Roth snored deeply and loudly. Several crumpled beer cans were littered around his recliner.

You can hear the faint sounds of the city. The garbage collectors, the midnight train, and the nearby freeway. Next door, a baby cries. Upstairs, you can hear a nervous man pacing around. Downstairs, you can hear rock music. There was noise everywhere.

Then, there was nothing. No sound. No crying. No music. The television set was silent.

Somewhere, in Roth’s apartment was a voice calling to Buzz. It sounded familiar. It was called to him by his living name.

“Alexander.”

The voice called, louder than a whisper. Again, it spoke his name.

“Alexander. Come here.”

[thx-lost-yxars]

@nebula-gaster

Scratch was fifteen miles outside Vegas, when his bike broke down. Bad fuel cells, just his luck.

He pushed the bike for another two miles, but night was almost here. He knew better to stay on the road at night. He needed shelter.

He spotted the old smokestacks in the distance. It must’ve been a factory, or power plant from before the war. It was good enough. He just needed somewhere with walls and a roof.

Hiding the bike, Scratch made his way inside. The place was decrypted, falling apart. Prospectors came through and gutted this place. Now, all that remained was the bones of the building. Soon enough, that will go.

Scratch walked carefully, making sure not to cause much noise. He held his revolver, his eyes watching the dark before him. The wind howls outside, it seemed a storm was picking up.

He saw one room, seeing the faded letters of “M NA ER OF ICE” above. Grasping the doorknob, he twisted it and pushed in. The office was a mess, with overturned desks and emptied filing cabinets. Scratch figured this would do for the moment.

Placing his gear down, The Fiend tried his best to relax. He felt tense, that something was wrong with this place. It was just an old building; he tried telling himself. It’s just that old fear, the stuff passed down, that tells him he should be fearful of the dark.

But he can’t shake the feeling.

Sitting down, he slouches in an old office chair. His gun on the desk, he looks around the room.

That’s when he hears it.

It sounded odd, like something was moving around in the hallway. Scratch hopped up, grabbing his gun and moving towards the door. Back against the wall, he waited. His mind screams that something is outside. That there’s someone, or something, just beyond the door. Reaching over, Scratch locks the door and steps back.

They’re closer now, whoever they are.

Too close.

[the-last-command]

"Now, don't go getting your nose all out of joint."

Oh, how very amusing.

Tired, deadpan eyes burrowed into Cicero. Ares frowned, having heard this joke a hundred times over.

“Do you want to keep your nose?”

Ares threatened.  

[diveyne]

@gluttons / starter call.

" humans are inherently flawed, and yet i trust them more than the divine. "

[wispsources]

long have i seen folks in the writing community write and create DNIs on their rules for folks to abide from. which, in itself, is okay! however, people often mistake a DNI as being a boundary when the reality is that they are not.

DNIs are not boundaries, they are requests.

Please understand that what i am referring to here are DNIs that are more PERSONAL to an individual. 

General DNIs that most people have the same or similar names for extremely valid and warranted reasons due to their obviously hostile, toxic, and harmful behaviors are NOT what i am talking about here.

While the reasons for personal DNIs are indeed VALID for individuals, what is discomforting for me about many that i have seen are the 'make or break' attitudes that often come with them.

i do truly believe that people should normalize making boundaries for themselves without forcing it upon others and creating ultimatums or asking for requests.

People are allowed to block folks who they do not vibe with. people are allowed to set up said boundaries. But, please DO NOT gatekeep people. i simply do not believe anybody is within their right to force people's hands without being toxic.

Remember, making a boundary is allowed but there is a difference between healthy boundaries and controlling behavior. By definition, a boundary is about YOUR own actions, not somebody else's. There is also a difference between setting a boundary, asking a request, and creating an ultimatum.

setting boundaries is fine. asking for a request is okay, sometimes. creating an ultimatum is not healthy.

A request is: i do not like this person, do not follow them. A boundary is: i do not like this person, if you follow them, then I will not follow you.

a DNI, which stands for 'Do Not Interact' is an explicit request for folks to NOT INTERACT with them if they write X or follow Y. DNIs are not always bad by themselves as they do often come with boundaries:

'dni if xyz because i will not engage in those subjects or want to be close to this person' (notice how the boundary given here is in bold.)

Please remember that DNIs alone are not boundaries though, they are requests. which, i cannot stress this enough, are not always bad. you are allowed to do whatever it is to create a safe place for yourself and curate your dashboard to your own liking.

you are allowed to have a personal DNI. it’s always okay to have them, and i am not saying that anybody shouldn't have them. ultimately, it is how you want to curate your space for yourself. folks are allowed to have their own social circles where they feel safe and comfortable and welcomed.

I also do believe that folks should be allowed to make decisions for themselves as well when it comes to personal relationships outside of social groups.

while you may not get along with a certain individual, that does not necessarily mean that it is the same for others.  forcing another to 'pick' between you or another person is a very harmful mentality to have.

yes, you are allowed and you are so valid in whatever feelings you may have towards/about somebody, but that is YOUR relationship/opinion about that person alone, not anybody else's.

Folks really need to normalize that it is okay if their friends talk to somebody that they don't like on a personal level. its okay if your friend wants to remain a neutral party because they would rather not get involved. its something that shouldn't be and isn't going to be a subject of discussion for the two of you, and it should be respected by both parties.

you can have healthy relationships with boundaries without making ultimatums or requests from others that may put them in an awkward position, especially since personal DNIs are often just personal for yourself. at the end of the day, it is still up to you on what YOU want to do to curate your internet safe space, but please don't do it in a matter where it forces folks into a 'its me or them' decision. that is not fair and it can be controlling and uncomfortable.

i do believe people are allowed to feel safe, but they should not do it with a forced decision of another or make them feel like they have to make a choice between you or another.

[edensbite]

@futureforged | starter call

eden moves through shadow with a huntress's ease, footsteps feather-light and silent upon stone. it's a habit she's never been able to unwind her fingers from, but she supposes it's better to play in caution and stealth with sharply keen eyes than to traverse the realm unaware of the wolves cowering within the flock. most especially on a day like today — progress day. though typically uneventful and dreadfully safe from danger, eden isn't so naive as to think that prying eyes from different corners of the city and the realm aren't watching. she might have been a long-time resident of piltover ( albeit, not a native one ), but she's here for similar reasons of her own. being the owner of the illustrious eden's bite, she comes by a plethora of information from above and below, and she likes to keep herself aware of piltover's finest, both militants and inventors alike.

she's busied herself with one of the inventors. tall — much taller than she is, at that — and criminally handsome, eden doesn't bother hiding the open admiration dawning in her pale pink eyes as she bats her eyelashes up at him. a honeyed smile slips over her lips, twisting at the corners of her mouth.

" sooooooooooooo, what do you think? " eden presses, eyes large and pleading with brows knitting together. her lower lip pushes into the slightest of pouts as she holds her intertwined hands against a cheek. " it's about time i invest a little more into the city and its brightest minds, " she continues, lowering her hands back down to her sides. " it can't be easy putting in all that work. does it even pay? no offense, i mean! i'd just be happy to help fund your research. " sticking out a hand, she extends it to him, using the other to toss a cascade of ink-black hair over her shoulder. " eden, of eden's bite, of course. a pleasure to meet me, i know! "

[infinity-cantos]

"I might suck, but at least I can swallow even a salty bitch like you."

( for whoever lol )

Emotionless.

Yet, she could barely contain her disgust and scorn with Lucifer. In her, every atom scream hatred for that traitorous son of God.

“Filth.”

She readied her crossbow and fired. A holy bolt came flying directly at Lucifer.

Yet, Shrike knew she must disengaged. Lucifer will have his day soon enough. Go ahead at Morningstar would be foolish. Without her sisters, without Adam, it would be total suicide.

So, she retreats.  

But she knew, Lucifer will pursue.

[heartate]

for @umbane, from here.

the first text flying in is all it takes for ahri to feel the immediate punch of guilt cut her clean in her gut. they are fast, they are incoherent and gibberish, and yet, she understands every visceral, intoxicated word. they are vicious fangs sinking down deep into her flesh, injecting her veins with a poison, a sickness so nauseating it makes her feel unclean. she sees the filth on her hands, raw with twisting vines growing from the dirt that cloak the ivy. she can't seem to move her thumbs fast enough as the pit continues to sink deeper in her chest, so cold that it feels disgustingly lukewarm, so hot that she's chilled to the bone.

she hasn't slept all night out of worry, and even spent the last few hours wondering if she shouldn't have sent that last text, after all. ahri knows it's a sensitive time, and tried her best to add some lightheartedness between the threads of worry.

[ from : ahri, 3:55 am. ] wait, kayn, i'm sorry, i don't mean it. i'm just kidding. please home home. i'm not leaving you. i'm not going anywhere. please just come home. i'm worried. i love you. please come home. please.

she sends it and throws her phone back down into her bed.

maybe she just screwed it all up.

[elegaria]

sona swore, once, that she would never fall under the spell of anyone else's control; and yet she finds herself bound by the confines of her world fracturing around her into a million shards, splintering the light she'd once known so far that only darkness swallowed her whole. fame lifted her into the fields of glory so long ago that she's since forgotten that it was a life she'd lived between the comforts of satin and silk, that countless people across the realm traveled from the far ends of earth and sea to hear the sweet chords spun by her delicate touch. spending so long of her life afterward escaping from the only world she'd ever known has a way of making a person forget, though. even a famed musician from a house of nobility was not immune to the cruelty of senseless persecution.

she stares at the etwhal lying on the floor by her feet. it called to her; it knew the melodies she needed to play to connect to the very fibers of someone's body, to extract the chemicals from their brains to feel and to think and to hurt. but she remains as still as she'd been before, closing her eyes, turning her head, refusing to look at him.

a little something for @decaeys ( alejandro )

[th3b3stscryb3]

Well... this was certainly different.

This place was a lot darker than he was used to. And a lot less colorful, the only light seemingly that of blue LEDs and whatever ceiling light hung over him.

Wilford fidgeted with his hands as he roamed about, not knowing where to go or why, of all places, he'd ended up here.

Eventually, he stumbles upon a door. One that feels intriguing enough to open.

"Hello?" He calls into the room, hoping to find... something. Anything, really.

-@wilfywarfy

Cold machinery hummed and something was rhythmically thrown at the floor. P03 was sorting through its cards.

It turned its frustrated expression towards the intruder. "Can I help you?"

It wasn't sure how he got in, especially undetected. It would have to review the security footage at some point, after this guy is dealt with.

[hellcab]

@nebula-gaster

Day-o, day-ay-ay-o

Daylight come and me wan' go home

Day, me say day, me say day, me say day, me say day, me say day-ay-ay-o

Daylight come and me wan' go home

The music played over the radio and echoed throughout the apartment. Golgotha Hills was out of sight, out of time. A good place to escape the eyes of Hell.

At the stove, Roth cooked a late morning breakfast. The All-American brunch, bacon and scrambled eggs. Orange Juice and black coffee. Toast smothered with jam.

It was no culinary masterpiece, but it was food. Granted, Roth was not careful with cooking. He cooks fast, messy. He’s not used to cooking for someone else.

Roth poured himself coffee ( spiked with vodka ) to ease his morning pains and fears. He had plenty of fears, more so for his friend.

Buzz was here, Roth invited him over until they could make their next move. Someone got to Buzz. Someone hacked the hacker. The purpose of which was to steal Buzz’s idea. The blueprints of something he was creating. Just . . . what was the device for? What could it do? Whatever was the purpose, it spooked Roth enough.

It scared Buzz.

Roth wanted to help his friend. Despite how annoying Buzz can be, Roth wanted to save him. Besides, friends are rare to come by down here. Roth doesn’t have that many left, not even at work. He just hopes he can help Buzz.

Roth leaned out of the kitchen, calling out for Buzz.

“Rise and shine, Buzz. Smell the coffee, breakfast is ready.”

[carcosa-lost]

OPERA NIGHT

@themosthatedbeingg

There he is in the shadows. Unnoticed by all, except for one. Dressed in regal tatters, his pallid mask hides away the blasphemous insanity of Godhood.  

He's staring at Lucifer. White buckshot eyes stared out across the vast theater, staring at Lucifer. Then, he vanishes.

There he is again, now closer than before. On stage, with the masked actors all around. None see him, no one take notice. He stands there with purpose as he stares.

Vanishing again, he’s closer now. Now in the audience, turning back to see Lucifer. That pallid mask becoming more hideous as he grows closer, imitating the face of sorrow and pain. He vanishes once more.

Now he’s here. Sitting right next to Lucifer. No guard notices, no one pays any attention. The theater grows silent, coming to a standstill. The air is dead as everyone is frozen. Time is exiled.

The stranger stars out across the grand opera, his eyes casting an emotionless gaze.

“Lightbringer. Morningstar. You have many names, as so do I.”

Three voices in one, his tone was of curiosity. Yet, something else brought him here.

“Does The King enjoy his imprisonment here?”

[thx-lost-yxars]

“I got you. Everything else is just details and drug paraphernalia.”

“I’m just that. Paraphernalia and scars.”

Scratch grabs a dusty bottle of tequila and drinks.

The ranch house was a mess of sorts. Scratch’s misrule lifestyle tends towards such disorganization. He doesn’t mind, nor care really.

Releasing the bottle, he offers a swig to Kira.  Always, inspiring bad habits.

“Y’know, this came with a worm. Gamecock says it’s something to do with flavor. Really bizarre, honestly.”  

[suturcd]

@bizzarrra said: "healing must come in handy with this line of work," abbacchio muses, eyeing the girl. leaning on the table nearest to her, it's a slow day. bruno and the others are off running a mission that doesn't require any replaying, so here abbacchio is — making small talk, which she isn't really great at. "do you like what you do?"

Fran lets a low, vague hum of acknowledgement sound in response to the initial observation. As for the second half, it's an unexpectedly complicated question, and with a touch of paranoia Fran wonders if that's deliberate--if it's some attempt to measure her morality, or nerve, or loyalty. If so, is Abbacchio doling it out at her own discretion, or was she directed to do so by Mr. Bucciarati himself…?

...No. She'll get lost in the weeds if she zeroes in on that unknown aspect of the inquiry. What matters more is how she answers, not why she's been asked. She needs to consider her answer carefully, though, all the same.

Despite herself, she thinks back to when she was a child; back when administering the clumsiest press of an ice pack to a classmate's bruise or a bandaid to a scrape set her aglow with a quiet sort of pride (doubly so when her handiwork was praised by her mother, who she considered the expert among experts in such matters, as many children do--as she still does, even if she knows that's objectively rather silly). She recalls the drowsy bob of her head against her mother's chest, of blinking bleary eyes over the simplified anatomical charts spread indulgently in front of her in the evenings. She recalls her father passing the two 'studying' and the way he would idly sound out the syllables for bones and organs and appendages in whatever languages were closest to the forefront of his mind at the time from study, and the somewhat-mangled tongue Fran tried to parrot them back in so he would be impressed with her budding expertise in his field, as well.

Heart. Cuore. Shinzou. Herz. Moyo. Corazón. And so on.

Fran can't put that same tender feeling to the work she does now. In fact, there are times when she finds certain people who end up on her operating table so detestable that she spends most of the procedure on something close to autopilot; imagines the hand of God descending from on high, re-parting the sutured flesh down the middle, opening them back up, undoing all her work; some sort of divine retribution in the absence of any justice of the mortal kind. It soothes her, sometimes. Only sometimes, but it's better than nothing.

"…It's like any other job. Some days are more pleasant than others," is what Fran settles on saying, quite diplomatically she thinks. Her index finger draws a line down the open spine of her book, then thumbs and fans at the pages, occasionally snagging an errant, dog-eared page. With a turn of her wrist, she presses the anatomy textbook closed and looks at Abbacchio (or, to a vague spot at the corner of her forehead--close enough to count as basically eye contact, she thinks) with a tilt of her head. "...I'll confess that I don't like the squirmers. And the ones who make a big deal about not being squirmers even less so at times."

And then, partly because it feels like the polite thing to do, and partly in a bid to redirect attention, she asks: "Do you enjoy what you do?"