ph_logs | Supression Request: These Feelings [November Open]

Supression Request: These Feelings [November Open]

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."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

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."

(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?

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

Edited (fixed a typo) 2023-11-01 07:15 (UTC)

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..."

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."

"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.

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.

"Thread for sure. Bobbin can be a bit feisty, even with someone who isn't a revenant like Angel."

Thread makes a curious noise and watches Jean come closer. But she stays calm, by no means spooked. Eddie is relaxed so this person must be safe. (The fact that Jean looks at her from the side, as chickens have to, is comforting.)

"Awk." Thread says, and she bobs her head to nudge at Jean's gentle hand.

Eddie explains, after a second, "Thread does that to ask for head-pats."

Head pats are provided with the barest of touches, like Jean is unsure of their own strength. "It's so strange to meet chickens when they're not food. She's...very soft..."

(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."

"It's just pain," Jean murmurs. "Once it's passed I'll be able to sleep again. I don't want to wait."

Jean's clothes needed to be mended after the Carnival, and they have been, poorly. The back of their shirt nearly matches their surgical scars.

"Understood. Please come this way."

He shows Jean back into the exam room, with the privacy screen and the surgical gown set out next to the heater as it was before, and turns away to wash his hands.

"I would prefer not to give you any medication apart from topical painkillers, until we know the new parts have integrated appropriately," he remarks to fill the silence. "But if you're still have trouble sleeping after 48 hours, I can write you a prescription to take to Ms. Boyle at the pharmacy."

"I wasn't planning on treating them as food, at least while they're still laying. So Thread and Bobbin are a bit more like pets." Eddie nods, "Yes, Thread is pretty soft all over."

Thread makes a pleased noise when Jean pats her head, and then she stretches her neck out. Eddie adjusts, holding her higher so she can reach Jean's hair easier, and Thread starts to run her beak through Jean's hair, preening them.

"Chicken thank you," Eddie explains. He can't help his grin.

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.

"..."

Well First Aid you've succeeded in hauling Jean upwards from the depression by confusing them. In all senses but the literal there are math equations floating around their head (all of them incorrect). At long last, still having not changed because they really need to figure this out, they hesitantly ask: "Why would she...need...your endorsement for that?"

"Hm? Oh, it's more for my benefit and yours, really. So long as I'm your primary physician, it's better if I'm in the loop about any medication you're taking. That way if you have some kind of negative reaction, it will be more readily apparent what might have caused it -- and I can advise you against taking anything that's known to conflict with your existing prescriptions or condition. Does that make sense?"

He turns around, hands held slightly away from his body to keep them clean, and tilts his head slightly in confusion at Jean. Who hasn't gotten changed. That's probably not a good sign.

"Are you okay?"

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.

"It's strange to contemplate though. One day this cuddly chicken will be food..." Jean moves to petting Thread's back, though there's a brief pause. "I suppose technically she is now since she's providing eggs, but, hahaha, ha..." their face flickers into a fond expression as they passively let Thread preen their hair, "you know what I mean. How do you even arrange that in your feelings?"

"...I am much better now that you've explained, yes, that was going to, hahahaha, ha, hahaha...that was gonna bother me all day." It even slots in which experiences Jean has had, though that mostly took the form of getting long lists of medication to not take after a given procedure. The strongest suggestion was always to get HP Ampules but who the fuck can afford those?

(Lobotomy Corporation could, and Jean had plenty of reason to be grateful for that, later in life.)

They slip behind the privacy screen to get changed, though their usual brisk efficiency is not clocked in for the day.

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.

"...What the..."

Jean looks up.

Looks down.

Up.

Down.

Objects and people just Appearing is not unknown to Jean but they associate it with the kind of technological development that, ideally, Marrow Island will never see, since it's built entirely on human suffering. They approach slowly, but this is merely professional caution; if someone's managed to rig this bottle to explode then, quite frankly - even as upset as Jean is right now - their bomb deserves to kill Jean, just for the innovation of it all.

They crouch next to the bottle, set it upright, and ponder. Eventually, this pondering resolves into slipping just one hand into Cobalt Scar so they can use the claw to extract the cork and shake out the Page and the ring. They set the bottle aside (and put the glove back in their pocket) and carefully put the ring down, still squatting.

Jean takes the strange Page, and reads it with the light behind their eyes. What do you say, little thing? Who are you?

This is the Page of Kora's Avatar.

The light is... old. Large. Much like the Parade, which was a fragment of something very vast, this also seems to come from an aspect of a greater entity rather than a person. Singer of sea shanties, wearer of the kiss of the summer sun. It tells the tales of the high seas, of adventure and treasure and derring-do. Of the wide open sea and an endless blue sky. Of freedom. Answering to no one but one's own heart.

And all the merciless, vengeful force of a stormy sea.

This gift, when equipped, comes with an outfit that consists of gender-neutral swashbuckler's garb, a finely-crafted pirate's cutlass, and a fabulous hat. It comes with expertise of a loose but aggressive swordsmanship style with increased skill in dodging, parrying, dirty fighting, cheap tricks, balancing, and acrobatics, all of which are significantly increased while standing on beaches, piers, or seafaring vessels. How very handy for a someone who fishes for a living!

Jean's eyes only don't widen because they are, you see, perpetually at maximum width. This seems like a pretty unambiguous message; more, it shows an understanding on Manager Kora's part that the role of management is not simply to give orders, but to provide support.

That's. Such a strange thing to immediately encounter. Even Gebura had to grow into that understanding.

Jean picks up the ring and slips it on, and begins meditating over the Page. They'll be a bit, putting it on, but it is in their mind an equally unambiguous signal of acceptance. They can work like this.

"Oh. Then I apologize for the confusion." First Aid leans against the counter with a quiet sigh, waiting patiently while Jean changes. He did it again, even though he hadn't meant to. Why is it that everything he says seems to set Jean off in some way? How can their cultures be so different?

(He still doesn't get that it's his own denial over their similarities that's really setting Jean off.)

"On a related note," he says, raising his voice just a little to be heard clearly behind the privacy screen. "I've been working on a meal plan for you. Based on the documents you gave me, I expect your caloric needs will go up in general once your implant returns to full functionality, with the possibility of a sharp spike in demands every time you use it in combat. It's vitally important that you meet your body's needs, Jean, even if you aren't feeling any discomfort. You may even see an overall increase in your operational efficiency if you do."

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

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Supression Request: These Feelings [November Open]

Fuck You, Pay Me

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This Meeting Could Have Been An Email

Why do humans call it snail mail anyway?

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Fuck You, Pay Me

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