Supression Request: These Feelings [November Open]

[restingslasherface]

Who: "Slasher Face" Jean and YOU + 1 Closed
What: Jean fuckin' died y'all
When: Early November (before Voyage of the Hollow Men)
Where: Oak & Iron, the Community Board, Around Town, the Temple
Warnings: Discussion of death, Bad Feelings, likely shit from Jean's dark-ass canon, traumatic flashbacks, burning/scarring
Notes: Just getting on this early while I have spoons

Containment Breach [Oak & Iron | Closed to Zelda | CW Traumatic Flashbacks, Burning/Scarring]

Jean wakes with a start, and the phantom feeling of cold. Their clothes are ill-fitting butcher's slops, smelling incongruously of wet dog, and the uncomfortable sensation is almost enough for them to center themself.

Almost.

The sensation of burning starts immediately, and the contrast between their mind's insistence that they are freezing to death and the reality of the crawling heat against their left cheek draws a gritted sound of pain from their throat. Over the course of nearly a minute, a skull and crossbones is scorched into their face, and they have to take awhile to just breathe.

It's in vain. The tally mark comes next.

Jean has no idea that it's been exactly 24 hours, which means they're trapped in the inn; after all, it's well after dark. A familiar face might be needed to coax them out from under the table. Goddesses know the staff don't want anything to do with this.

Org Chart [Community Board]

Signup sheets go up on the community board, asking for volunteers for three emergency teams, just beneath a note explaining the idea.

To better effect emergency responses to the ongoing siege of Marrow Island, Comrade Jean (Pumpkin Hollow Recovery Task Force) is seeking volunteers to staff and lead response teams which will coordinate on own initiative during notable crises. The teams are as follows:

COMBAT TEAM: Directly combat curse incursions with a focus on harm reduction and pro-active containment; protect citizens and infrastructure through violent force.

MEDICAL TEAM: First aid and triage, preventative care, bodymen. The grim work of aid during a disaster or surprise attack.

COMMUNICATIONS TEAM: Detect and report emergencies, coordinate activities between all teams and citizens, swiftly and effectively transmit information on the disaster in a concise manner.

Volunteers are encouraged to leave their names and phone numbers on the forms provided below, or to contact JEAN or MADAM PRINCESS ZELDA directly at their homes or anywhere in town. These teams are not sanctioned or sponsored by any existing organization on MARROW ISLAND and are strictly voluntary; however, JEAN is offering combat training to any citizen or Task Force member that desires it, regardless of volunteer status, during their shore leave between the hours of 6 AM and 1 PM.

[OOC Note: Feel free to leave a drive-by to just handwave volunteering, to seek Jean out in person for a thread, or even to attend training!]

This Meeting Could Have Been An Email [Around Town]

With the events of the festival heavy on their mind, Jean is making an effort to check in on friends, peers, and potential assets, not that those divisions are particularly clear in their mind right now. Did you make plans with Jean before the catastrophe? Here they are to follow up. Consider this the catch-all for That Thing That Was Plotted, but it's also the chance to catch Jean at the Oak & Iron getting their coffee, haunting the tailoring shops again with a distinct thought towards actually spending money on clothes, interrupt them grocery shopping, or otherwise gently find (and possibly hold) the nugget.

Fuck You, Pay Me [The Temple]

At some point when Jean feels like they've got ducks in a row, they come into the Temple of a morning to provide a strong contender for least reverent prayer in recent history. Curiously, they've washed up extra hard first, combed their messy hair and even shined their shoes, but...

Well. Jean doesn't kneel before the altar, and while their tone is quiet respect, the words...

"Your enemy seems to think you exist, Manager Kora, and that you have some manner of power, some stake in me. I fought too hard and too long to choose for myself only to end up here for reasons I couldn't control, and as amazing as that is...I don't work for free. Not ever again, not after the Library. I am not your plaything. If you want me as your employee...then we need to talk. And if you won't, kindly stop by the City, make an appointment with R-Corp to rent their cloning vats, and use them to go fuck yourself."

Comments

Fuck You, Pay Me

[deaths_head]

When he's done, there's a very quiet clap from near the middle of the temple. Turn around, Jean--the Shade is looming.

And applauding. And grinning with unabashed fondness at the irreverent demand for recompense from a goddess.

"Where I come from, there's one god who demands he be the only one you recognize." the Shade explains. "And folks talk real respectful-like to him, but I never did cotton to that. Rules say you gotta know him alone as the Lord, ain't say a damn thing 'bout talkin' sweet to him when you just wanna give 'em a piece of your mind."

He ambles down the middle of the temple, then comes to crouch in front of Jean, still smiling.

"But gods 'n goddesses ain't managers, little imp. Their role has power, but it's one of service. Took me a lotta hard lessons to learn that as a god m'self. And you tellin' Kora what for? That you're gonna take charge of your own damn choices?"

He huffs out another laugh, patting Jean's shoulder.

"If I was able to claim souls, I'd ask you if you'd let me have yours, little imp. I'm damn proud of you."

[restingslasherface]

Jean stiffens when the clap sounds, and they never quite un-stiffen; they listen to the Shade talk, without interrupting, silent and still. The hand on their shoulder, though, that gets a cold flinch away, instant and unmistakably hostile.

"...I am not for sale, Comrade Shade," Jean says in the low and even tones of someone who is on the verge of an eruption. "For rent, sure. But I am. No one's. To own. Not now, not then, not ever. I would be delighted to negotiate terms with Ms. Kora. Maybe even with you, provided neither of you would put me in breach of my original contract with the white-haired lady."

"But say you want to claim me again and I'll paint this temple with your blood."

CW: mentions of self harm, semi-graphic

[deaths_head]

The Shade's hand lifts the moment he feels Jean flinch, and the venom in them...

For their size and their strangeness, for all the ways in which they are other--for one horrible moment the Shade feels like he's looking in a mirror.

He sees himself, pieced slowly back together by blood and magic. Tearing at his own skin, into the mark of Death itself, tearing his own name into his belly with that tainted blood beneath his nails...growing angrier and angrier as he finds the strength to pull his essence back into his own soul, to remain himself. More confused as he remembers things like identity and free will and feeling.

"I said I would ask, Jean." he replies very softly, shifting to his knees so he can sit back on his heels. "No possession taken without permission. Your choices...they're more precious 'n gold, son."

He hesitates, then takes a deep breath.

"I wanna apologize for upsettin' you, little imp--but to do that I gotta tell you a story. Would you allow me to tell it to you?"

[restingslasherface]

"I'm listening."

No further movement. Not even a twitch. Jean stays completely.

Totally.

Still.

This Meeting Could Have Been An Email

[batteryacid]

(But Petting an Emoji is Much Less Comforting)

Here's the thing. Eddie knows how the return from death works -- you wake up in a random place with some frankly bullshit consequence for causing the trouble. He also knows that when Angel is hurt, he goes to a sacred space. So it stands to reason that Angel would be resurrected in a sacred space, and the one that Eddie knows about is the Temple in town.

Knowing he would have to wait on Angel's resurrection until some time after 7 p.m. Eddie returned to his farm and cared for the animals, did all the farmerly things that won't wait for grief... and then he tucked Thread into his arms and walked back to Pumpkin Hollow proper.

When Angel comes back, he's going to be disoriented. Given the nature of Mendel's carnival, the death was likely a torment, so Eddie wants to comfort Angel with chicken-y attention from Thread as soon as possible. Eddie slows in his determined march when he notices Jean in the shopping district.

"Agent Jean!" he calls out.

This is echoed by Thread with a "Bokka bok!" Odd enough to get Jean turning around?

[restingslasherface]

Jean turns around immediately, entirely abandoning the potatoes they are inspecting with great solemnity and no expertise. An expression of pure wonder, normally associated with three-year-olds who are attempting to touch a kitten for the first time.

The words out of their mouth have not been provided by their conscious mind, and are in fact a reverent whisper: "The chicken..."

[batteryacid]

That wonder on Jean's face brings a small smile to Eddie's own. When Jean speaks, Eddie replies, "Thread is Angel's favorite. I want her to be there when I find him." He still can't bring himself to say why, but... does he have to?

Eddie runs a hand down Thread's back, petting her for both her comfort and his. Then, a little hesitantly, Eddie asks,

"Would you... like to pet her, too? She was sad that Angel... didn't come home."

[restingslasherface]

"I...had specifically asked Comrade Angel if it was safe to pet the chickens," Jean admits in a small voice. They are Sidling Closer. Sidling. Sidling. Under no circumstance must they spook the Chicken. The Chicken must be comfortable.

Perhaps interestingly, they don't look directly at Thread, instead looking a bit to Eddie's left and watching her out of peripheral vision.

A hand reeeeaaaaaaaaaaches, gent0l.

Why do humans call it snail mail anyway?

[lovinglefthand]

Of course First Aid signs up for the medical team; it's what they've already been trying to do on their own, after all, and he duty-bound to support any efforts to improve community organization so he can perform his own duties more effectively. But he doesn't make any attempt to actually contact Jean until some three or four days into the month, when a letter shows up at Jean's door --

Agent Jean, (It reads)

Your order is ready. I am available for installation from 3PM until midnight on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday this week, or from 8AM until noon on Friday. Please return to the clinic at your earliest convenience.

First Aid

[restingslasherface]

Knock knock (OPEN UP THE DOOR IT'S REAL - wait wrong vibe).

Jean's seen better days. They're exhausted, soul-deep, with a certain light gone from their eyes.

But they're here.

[lovinglefthand]

(Wait, this isn't my domino's order!)

"Oh," First Aid says quietly, after he's opened the door. After he's seen Jean's haggard face, with the new mark on their cheek.

Not entirely unlike the white snowflake marring First Aid's own visor, he suspects.

"Please come on," he says gently, and once Jean's come inside and the door's shut he offers, "We need not do this today, if it would contribute more stress to your mental state."

Fuck You, Pay Me

[psalmofseasons]

For a long time, there is silence. A foreboding silence that is almost a noise in and of itself, oppressive and looming. Strange, that demons appear so eagerly when they are called, but these ostensibly loving goddesses are so often unresponsive in the face of prayers in their names.

The quiet gloom is broken abruptly by a loud THUNK on the hardwood floor behind Jean, in the sitting circle placed around the altar, followed by a series of rattling sounds.

[restingslasherface]

Jean meant it when they told the Shade that they're willing to negotiate. Maybe more unusual is their willingness, here, to wait. They're angry, yes, furious at the implication and at their own inability to fight the Carnival or even contribute to the evacuation...

But though they'd called Kora 'manager', the highest term of respect Jean knows, there's another thought on their mind as well. Zelda and Eddie and Erik had said, this world is not like yours. It's a better place, people treat each other differently. In the City, Jean would never have been so brazen with the perceived owner of land, with Management. Beneath the frustration and rage is a hope that these alleged goddesses that own this world will prove Jean's friends right.

But.

The sudden sound, with no preceding footsteps, still puts Jean's hands in their pockets while they turn sharply. The claws of Cobalt Scar are concealed in them.

[psalmofseasons]

Rolling around on the floor is a glass bottle with a cork in the top. Like the kind people use to send messages across the sea. It seems to have simply fallen from the ceiling and somehow managed not to break.

Inside, there are two things.

The first is a gold ring emblazoned with a skull. A wave is molded into one side, the sun into the other. It is conveniently sized to fit on one of Jean's middle fingers.

The other is a glowing piece of paper, tightly rolled to fit inside. It should look somewhat familiar to Jean.

Meeting Could Have Been An Email

[lordoftheozarks]

Erik has been ruminating on that notice from Jean for a while now. He could see himself being a valuable asset in any of those three categories. However... he troubles with the idea of answering to an authority that isn't his own. Even if it is volunteer work. What to do?

Fuck it.

He can't speak out of one side of his mouth about being part of the community and then blatantly ignore what is, admittedly, a good idea for trying to protect it. So, with that decided, he seeks out Jean. Not that he doesn't approve of Princess Zelda, he does, but the question of where he may be needed best feels like it ought to be presented to Jean first. They have seen the extent of that which he is capable of.

"May I join you?" he asks as he steps up beside Jean's table at the Oak & Iron.

[restingslasherface]

"Of course!" Jean nudges their food aside; attempts to follow First Aid's diet plan are currently fighting with Jean being used to small portions and just ceasing being hungry. They will, however, be damned before they let their own body defeat them. "How can I help, Mister Erik?"

[lordoftheozarks]

He sits. "I saw your notice on the town board. About the teams. I've come to ask if you would like my participation." A pause, and then. "And, Jean, I do still go by Lord even here."

[hyliasblessing]

It's no secret in such a small town that Zelda and Jean have a connection, so when the closers at the Oak & Iron find Jean catatonic under their prep table, they know exactly who to call.

Thankfully the lights from Pumpkinfest are still (mostly) intact, so Zelda is able to make her way over right away while the staff attend to cleaning duties elsewhere and give the two some space.

"Jean!" Zelda crouches, worry on her face. "There you are! I-I couldn't find you during the carnival!"

[restingslasherface]

A hand snaps out and takes Zelda's, squeezing tightly. She's warm...

Jean's warm. They're not dying. They're alive.

Their voice is a thin croak: "Comrade Whitlock will need assistance."

[hyliasblessing]

"The carnival is long over, dear. Everyone is alright." She squeezes their hand back. "Let's go home."

This Meeting Could Have Been An Email...but very late oops

[icanmakeit]

Nieve is currently wandering around during one of her outings, having no real intentions or destinations in mind but going wherever her whims will take her. Sometimes that ended well and sometimes it didn't.

Right now it seems fairly harmless though as she stands in front of one of the tailor shops with a thoughtful look on her face while she looks in at the displays. Then she sighs as she turns away to look around, eyeing the different buildings. Once she does that for a moment or two, she suddenly pats her hip and looks confused.

"Blasted, where did I leave my notebook?"

[restingslasherface]

Enter vibrating nugget, from stage left. Jean holds out the notebook in question, offering up their sunniest slasher smile. Those pointed teeth fit together very.

Very.

Well.

"Thought it might be one of mine! My apologies, Comrade...?"

This meeting could have been an email

[burnyoudown]

Kavinsky hadn't been here long, but in the short time since he'd found himself on the island, he'd frequently, uh, frequented the Oak & Iron. Was it too early to have a drink? Maybe. But he'd never been ashamed of day drinking. He thought, also, that he deserved it considering the shit he'd been through and how it still haunted him. It'd probably haunt him for a while, but. There wasn't a lot he could do about that.

He had a nice pair of high tops at least. Which...he wouldn't actually be able to explain in a satisfying way if anyone asked. Some people engaged in retail therapy. He preferred dream therapy.

After he had his drink in hand, he glanced around the tavern- stopped, doubled back. He'd been told this was a small place and he'd learn who everyone was eventually, but he didn't know a whole lot of people yet. He wasn't shy about changing that. So he took his drink and headed over to where Jean was.

Gesturing to the empty seat across from them, Kavinsky asked, "Hey, this seat taken? Cool if I sit here?" And he actually- he waited for a reply. Which was a shocking display of manners, really.

[restingslasherface]

Jean, halfway through a sip of coffee, gestures expressively to the opposite chair in agreement. They manage to get the cup down without choking to death, wild considering the amount of manic energy on display; when it lowers, both their mouthful of very sharp teeth and a strange brand on their cheek are visible. A skull and crossbones, beneath which is a single tally mark; blackened as though only recently scabbed from some terrible burn.

"Welcome! Good morning comrade! I must have missed your arrival from the ferry -" Jean produces a notebook from their shirt pocket and flips through it; each entry, with several pages of reserved space, begins with someone's name and a detailed sketch of their face. Jean stops at a new blank page and starts blocking out the oddly corporate formatting they favor with a pencil. "Agent Jean, off the ferry as of last summer, pleasure to meet you! Absolute pleasure, how can I assist?"

[burnyoudown]

Kavinsky would start to think he was cursed--in a different way than this place was apparently already cursed--if he ended up responsible for someone choking to death. Good thing that crisis was averted.

He put his glass down first so he could pull the chair out and just sort of...flop into it. He was just quiet for a moment, observing, thinking--and being oddly charmed. He was rarely charmed so quickly--not counting Ronan (and Ronan had been a different sort of charmed, anyway)--but, well. It was what it was. It seemed legitimately everything he'd been told was true. He hadn't been told much, but compared to the shitty gossip and rumors he was used to...it was refreshing.

"Morning. And it's alright- I didn't exactly announce it." He tipped his head to the side. Did people track the arrival of the ferry? "I'm in a better mood now than then, anyway." Not that he'd treated anyone poorly before, but he'd been grumpy. Propping his chin on his hand, he asked, "Do you keep track of everyone who shows up here? Like, a record?"

"Also it's good to meet you, too." He didn't usually remember his manners--he'd never been taught to have them, after all--but occasionally, he could be polite. "Oh- also my name's Kavinsky. I'm still figuring my way around and meeting people and all of that shit, but I've heard stuff about you. Good stuff. Like, from two separate people, which made me figure you must make an impression. And you do." He smiled, to make sure it was clear he meant a good impression.