October Event - Statement Begins

[pumpkinhollow]

STATEMENT BEGINS

Statement of the Entire Town of Pumpkin Hollow, Recorded October 18th, 16:55

{ CONTENT WARNINGS: All of them. In seriousness, this event covers almost all major human fears, so please be sure to avoid the names of Fears that would affect major squicks/triggers, and check the CWs of each prompt on the first line of the drop-down sections! }

Like so many of these terrible times, it all starts on a normal day. The gala was a night to remember, certainly. A welcome reprieve for most, considering the general lack of horrors. Not for everyone, of course, but no party is perfect.

However, during her visit in September, a little spider managed to get into the ear of the Crawling Chaos. She wove a clever tale of a terrible fate that consumed the world, creating a factory farm for pain, chaos, and fear. She told an awful story of skin-stealing clowns and an endless war, of worms in the dirt and in the skin, of unraveling flesh and twisting minds and an all-consuming darkness. Puppets and colossal beasts, sprawling oceans and crushing earth, wolves that prowl the woods in human skin and hungry fire. She painted the Father of Bats a wicked picture that would only require the use of that little fissure down in Paradesium to realize. And he and she, both in their human disguises, shook hands.

Of course we’ll probably just pin it on Jon Sims again. He seems to be the source of a lot of trouble, doesn’t he? It would only make sense. After all, those in the know will recall that this whole scene looks awfully familiar.

You are carrying out some normal activity. You are mid conversation. You are on the trolley home. You are anywhere you might be on any day. And then suddenly, between two breaths, you are not. There is no fanfare, no creeping dread. You simply blink, and find yourself in hell.

Happy Halloween, Pumpkin Hollow. This one won’t be any more forgiving than the last two.

Southern Coast

THE LONELY | Jack's Marina and the Bluffs

Also called "The Forsaken" or "The One Alone." This is the fear of isolation, either due to being separated from others by tangible barriers or social/emotional ones. The fear of having no one to reach out to, of abandonment, of being unloved or unwanted, of being cut off from society.

CWs: isolation, solitary confinement, memory loss.

The Tundra, a mighty vessel of a freighter ship, pitches and sways lazily in the waves just beyond Jack's Marina.

Workers bustle to and fro on the deck of the ship, but for all the quiet that hangs heavy like a shroud, you almost wouldn't know it. Your work is mundane, menial, repetitive. Isolating, above all else--- there are no tasks that would require any more than two sets of hands. Your voice and face betray you in equal parts, leaving you as cold and still as the waters that stretch between you and Pumpkin Hollow. You may look at your crew-mates, but you are a world away from them, and they the same to you. Should you try to find a way to close those distances and get caught, punishments are swift, harsh, and show you that you can become yet more alone, when you're abandoned in the brig.

Complaints go to the feedback box only. Your captain won't be seeing you any time soon. Best that you sort things out on your own.

Should you not be fit to work, you'll instead find yourself on the beaches of Marrow Isle, or on the sloping cliffs of the Bluffs. Here, you can speak, you can cry out, you can do anything that you like - but why would you bother? You're alone. You can't even properly keep yourself company, with the way your memories of everything at all wash in and out, like waves that lap against the shore. You may think that, once, you were someone. But maybe you never really were anyone at all. Maybe you've always been destined for this. Maybe things are better this way.

It hurts, but it's comfortable. You were made for this. It's something you've always known, but never wanted to admit, isn't it?

You were destined to be alone.

THE END | Fall's Promise Cemetery

Also called "Terminus" or just "Death". Represents the fear of dying, especially painfully, as well as the fear of what comes after (or lack thereof, in some cases). Its victims and its servants alike tend to be those who have had close calls or near-death experiences, if they survive at all.

CWs: existential dread, mortality in general - specific CWs will vary per prompt.

Falling flat on your back, you hit cold earth. The scent of grave dirt fills your nostrils. Looking up, you see a gray and dreary sky, and six feet of sheer earthen walls.

You’re in Fall’s Promise Cemetery, in a grave marked for you. It’s awkward, but easier than you expected to get free and climb up onto the graveyard lawn. All around you, you see headstones over open graves, bearing the names of your friends, your neighbors.

Leave the cemetery. There’s nothing stopping you but the fence, but it’s easy enough to hop. Suspiciously so, in fact. Except the moment your feet hit the ground on the other side, you find yourself somewhere new.

What is it about death that scares you the most? Not the temporary deaths within the barrier, per se, but true death? Is it the pain, the suffering, the feeling of your life slipping away? A certain scene, perhaps, the idea of dying in a particular way. Gunned down, drowned, burned alive, torn to pieces in some strange, inexplicable way, or the helplessness of simply fading away in a hospital bed. Some fear less death itself, but what comes after. Eternal punishment, the unknown, or nothing at all--- a complete cessation of existence. Even if you believe in paradise, there’s always everything you leave behind to think about. Or maybe it’s just time. The memory of you, and all that you were, fading into obscurity, until no one remembers your name or your face.

Whatever it is, the scenario you wander into is tailored specifically to the source of that terror. Illness, violence, oblivion, a legacy left unmade, the mourning of your loved ones, the End has dreamed up a way for you to live through it--- and die through it. Sometimes these scenes will mutate, fuse with that of your neighbor, creating a mode of mutual destruction designed to creep into your soul, pry loose your deepest terror, and then end your life… for now. It only takes a few hours before you live once more, a gift that you can keep if and only if you manage to escape. But rest assured, it will not be easy, and it will not happen on your first time through this domain. Your life comes to its sordid end, and you fade into a dark and dreadful silence.

Falling flat on your back, you hit cold earth. The scent of grave dirt fills your nostrils. Looking up, you see a gray and dreary sky, and six feet of sheer earthen walls.

You’re in Fall’s Promise Cemetery, in a grave marked for you.

DOWNTOWN HOLLOW

THE STRANGER | Greater Downtown Hollow

Also called "I Do Not Know You". The fear of the uncanny valley, things that are almost human but not quite, perversions of the human form, and existential dread regarding identity and selfhood.

CWs: mutilation, dismemberment, body horror, depersonalization, unreality.

The streets of Downtown Hollow are bustling, just as before. Festival banners flutter in the breeze and carnival barkers shout on every corner, peddling their wares. But something has changed. Something doesn’t feel right. Everything feels wrong.

Were people’s eyes always that dark? Were their limbs always that long? Were their voices always that stilted? Surely these buildings weren’t always made of plaster. These doors opened once. But then again, how can you be sure you’re even opening it right? Are you even sure of what a door handle is supposed to look like? Are you sure that’s your hand reaching for it?

On the wind, you can hear the shrieking sound of a steam organ. And you don’t know why, but it fills you with the deepest dread.

Shambling mannequins, grotesque automatons, wax figures, and sawdust-stuffed dolls haunt the streets of Downtown Hollow, wearing faces that don’t belong to them and don’t fit them right. It’s hard for your eyes to perceive the faces of other real people correctly as well, with those that you come across looking distorted to you somehow. And all the shops are selling the same sort of things--- parts of people. Skin, and faces especially, names, memories, personalities, even souls. How does one buy a soul? Why, simply trade yours in. This one’s an antique. Or maybe it’s shiny and new. What’s in a name, anyway? Maybe you even spot something for sale that belongs to someone you know. Or knew. Your mother’s name at a booth, your ex lover’s heart in a glass case, the face of a friend who died long ago hung on a wire like a piece of drying meat.

If you’re unlucky, you might even see something you’re sure was once yours.

Was it, though? It’s hard to tell. The creatures wandering the street are prone to grabbing people at random, dragging them screaming off the streets and peeling away flesh and identity and reason until you’re as stripped bare of identity as they are. Can you even remember your name? Is the face you have the one you started with? It’s oh so hard to be sure. But surely someone now, aren’t you?

If you don’t have a “you” to trade for something new, that’s alright. Find a knife, a razor, a shard of glass. Carve yourself a new self at the pumpkin-carving station, or assert yourself in the pecking order. You’re just as capable of taking what you want, just as surely as any silly clown doll, aren’t you?

THE WEB | Greymare Library and Town Hall

Sometimes called "The Spider" or "The Mother of Puppets". This in part the fear of spiders themselves, but also the fear of being caught in someone else's web. The fear of being manipulated by someone else or having your actions controlled, being part of someone's master plan.

CWs: manipulation, loss of bodily autonomy, public humiliation.

The Mother of Puppets thrives on the illusion of choice. And as such, her domain features two charming venues for your perusal.

The first is the Black Widow Library. Greymare? No, you must be mistaken. This expansive institution is filled to the brim with tomes. But you feel particularly drawn to one, your hand lifting to take it almost instinctually. As you hold it in your hands, you feel a dread you cannot explain. What’s there to be afraid of? It’s just a book. Open it. Despite the way your stomach knots, and terror floods your brain so acutely that you feel lightheaded, you crack apart the cover, and read.

This is a story about you.

Your eyes pour over the text, absorbing information voraciously as some sordid tale featuring you as the protagonist spills out over the page. A knife raised in anger. A relapse into a toxic habit. An act of violence upon your own person. Whatever the tale is, you frantically scan the page, unable to stop until you know what happens next. When you finally lift your eyes from the page and snap back to reality, you find that the dreadful story has come to pass. Except for the last line of the book. ”Our hero, seeking solace from the terrible tragedy, reaches up to select a book from the library shelf…”

If you’re not in the mood to read, perhaps some bureaucracy in action will prove more interesting. You are in Town Hall, which is utterly packed today, knowing that today is the deadline to get your papers done. What papers? What are they for? It doesn’t matter. You need them. Otherwise, there could be consequences. What are they? Maybe a fine, or jail time, or worse. You’d rather not imagine what “worse” could mean.

The lines are insanely long, and the stress you feel is immense. How long will this take? Will you even have time to get your papers done today? Maybe you should come back. No, no, the lines could be longer if you do that. You have to stay and stick this out. You cannot afford to be late on this.

At last, you reach the front of the line. Your legs are weary as the disinterested receptionist listens to your request, produces a form, asks you a series of increasingly invasive questions. You feel like you could have written all this in yourself, but you can’t say anything. What if you can’t get any help because you protested? You answer the questions under duress, but you answer them all the same. Your stomach tightens. The receptionist hands you the form and instructs you to go to another room. You helplessly move on to a waiting room, taking a number and sitting again for hours, weighing the misery of being here against the anxiety of not knowing what might be next, or whether it’s worse than whatever punishment you might face for not having your papers done.

You spend an impossibly long amount of time being shuffled from room to room, queue to queue, asked to do increasingly ridiculous, inane, or degrading things in order to get yet another bit of documentation before being sent somewhere else. Sometimes you’re told you did something wrong, and you have to go back, and wasted all that time waiting. Each time, you feel utterly obligated to comply. What choice have you got? The instructions only continue to escalate, from humiliating and violating to repugnant and cruel. The longer it goes on, the clearer it becomes that this place and these people can do whatever they want to you. And there is nothing you can do to stop them.

THE CORRUPTION | All Pumpkin Hollow Clinics

Also known as "The Crawling Rot", "The Flesh Hive," or sometimes simply "Filth." This represents the fear of corruption of bodies and spaces via disease, rot, insects, mold, and other things evoking feelings of deep disgust. The fear of unsanitary or revolting things. While this fear is almost always extremely literal, it can sometimes also manifest as toxic love.

CWs: parasitism, illness (recoverable and terminal), allusions to hospice abuse, medical abuse, trypophobia, insects (dead and alive + swarms), unsanitary conditions, body horror, disease, rot and decay.

The small clinics of Pumpkin Hollow have been linked together intrinsically by the crawling contagion, forming the labyrinthine halls of what has become Pumpkin Hollow's very own Jane's Grace Medical Center.

Each smaller facility has become a wing of this hospital, and all the patients are very, very ill. Diseases the likes of which have never been seen on the island have their hooks in any person unfortunate enough to have encountered someone contagious, and even still, they spread like wildfire, clashing together inside ailing bodies on hospital beds to create new, stronger plagues to stand the test of time. The sick wards are filled with those ailing, stretchers lining the halls outside of wards too full to accommodate them; patients weep, groan, scream in their agonies, while weeping rashes spread, sores bleed, wounds infect, and the stench of decay and death permeate every hall.

Doctors, some familiar faces, others covered by far too many medical masks to reveal any discernible features, will do their very best to see to it that they're able to treat these poor people. Contaminated implements, with normal sterilization procedures proving impossible, will simply have to do.

The lucky ones among the patients are simply sick. Some even more fortunate than that are delirious with illness, barely able to understand what is happening to them. Those with less luck are so very aware, or worse yet, become infested with any of the crawling, skittering masses that squirm their way between bedposts and tools alike. Skin bulges with scabies, pinholes spread as strange worms find new homes, and bedbugs chew beneath the bed-ridden bodies of those too ill to leave them.

The most unfortunate ones, deemed incurable, are placed where the hopeful few can't see their fate. A hospice wing for those "terminal" few, where any who know them are assured they will rest easy for the last of their scant few days.

Deathless as this place is, the dying do not die. Instead, their festering, weak bodies are piled into beds together, and they are forgotten. No matter how the rot takes them--- skin sloughing away, organs failing, joints collapsing--- they will never truly die.

There is an abundance of suffering to go around, but one question yet remains: are you a doctor, or a patient?

THE SPIRAL | The Oak & Iron

Also called "It Is Not What It Is" or "The Twisting Deceit." It is the fear of madness, losing one's grip on reality, being gaslit, deception of the mind and the senses. Manifests as hallucinations or illusions and can cause victims to improperly perceive time. A common appearance is that of a door that should not be where it is and impossible spaces, as well as fractal images.

CWs: unreality, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, gaps in memory, madness, self injury (mild).

Welcome to the Oak & Iron! Finally, someplace familiar. The lovely timber, stucco, and steel building where you spent your earliest days and coldest nights in Pumpkin Hollow. The cozy interior welcomes you warmly. An unfamiliar receptionist works the counter--- a woman with the curliest hair you’ve ever seen in your life, dizzying amber eyes, and a dazzling smile.

You’ve lost your home in a terrible apocalypse again? Oh no, how dreadful. You poor dear. Well don’t worry, we’ve got you covered. Room and board is on town hall again, don’t you fret. Here’s your key. Your room is just down the hall. Go and get settled, love, you’re going to be just fine.

Everything is going to be fine.

You wander down the hallway. Then another, and another, and another. You’re sure the building didn’t used to be this big. Where is your room? You look at your key again, and it seems like somehow you missed it, even though you’re sure you were checking each number. You double back. This hallway seems different. Did you go the wrong way? No, it can’t be, you just came from this door. But this can’t be right. You turn around again, and the door you’d just come through is gone.

Okay, well, clearly you just got turned around. It’s okay. It’s fine. You keep going, looking for another door. You check your key again. The number isn’t what you remember it being. When did your fingernails get so messed up? It almost looks like you were… digging, at one of the doors. When did that happen?

Somehow, you end up back at the front desk. The woman there offers to help you find your room and you are just so incredibly grateful--- but as you’re looking, you accidentally become separated from her. How could you be so careless? Where did she go? She was right behind you. Where is this goddamn room?!

You find the woman again, frantic now and exhausted from wandering. She calms you down, gets you some water, assures you it’s all going to be okay. You must just be so tired. “Don’t worry, darling. We’ll find it together.”

THE DESOLATION | Larkin Estate

Also called "The Lightless Flame," "The Blackened Earth," or "Asag." This is the fear of pain, agony, random destruction, loss, and burning. It often manifests in the form of destructive fire and things associated with it. Forest or house fires, destruction of potential, loss of loved ones, sabotage of success, and severe burn wounds are common. Its victims tend to lose the things they love most or die before realizing their potential, as well as come to harm by literal fire.

CWs: burning, suffocation, potential animal endangerment, entrapment, unreality, the potential for loss and grief.

Smoke sears your throats and stings at your eyes as you stumble your way through the Larkin Estate, granted the elegance it once had, only with intention to take it away again.

Tonight is the night that the estate burned, collapsing in on itself, bright and burning, like a dying star. You are dressed to the nines in formal-wear that hardly befits you, and regardless of where you find yourself--- guest rooms, servant's quarters, the grand dining room--- you can hear the fire roaring just down the hall, growing ever-closer with every passing moment. None of the windows will open, not even enough to let some of the smoke pour out of the burning home. Impact shatters them, but by the time you move to climb out of it, the glass has returned. The doorknob sears the flesh of your palm when you try to open it to escape.

Worse yet, over the flames, you hear them.

People you know, people you love, perhaps even people who shouldn't be here, scream in the distant manor, begging for help, calling out to you. They're always just out of reach, should you brave the flames that destroy your flesh down to the bone; no matter how you try, you'll hear them consumed by fire, over and over again, just as you are. You do not know if your pets or Pokémon are here, just as you are, or if they're hidden away in the home, but the unknown in that makes it all the worse. Everything you know, everything you've worked for, everything you love, ends here. Your future and everything it could have held is cut off, here and now, in an uncaring, hungry inferno.

But perhaps you escape from your room, and the flames aren't able to catch you before you flee from them. Maybe you're able to find a part of the estate that's yet to catch fire, and your burns have time to begin to heal. Maybe you find other survivors in the calamity.

Peace is granted to be taken away. Collapsing beams will separate you, and the fire spreads relentlessly, seeming to only burn hotter and more viciously the second a piece of hope enters your mind.

All will be consumed by desolation until nothing but ash remains.

THE EYE | Pumpkin Hollow Clock Tower and Surrounding Area

Also known as "The Beholding" or "Ceaseless Watcher". The fear of being watched, stalked, followed, or exposed. Fear of a lack of privacy, fear of judgement from others. Fear of knowledge that could destroy you, and obsession with knowing. Manifests in the form of any eye, either real or symbolic. This can include drawings or photos of eyes, mirror images, camera lenses, and more. Its victims usually have experiences related to being watched intently, followed by unseen eyes, or other similar experiences.

CWs: scopophobia, stalking, paranoia, invasions of privacy, feelings of being watched or spied on, aggressive surveillance, maiming.

The heavy gears of the Pumpkin Hollow clock tower tick heavily, but remain unseen, in this monument of scrutiny.

Each level, once largely empty aside from scaffolding and staircases, is now a maze. Towering marble, austere and polished to perfection, is woven together with clear glass to create tight corridors. Cameras, befittingly old but strange no less, are perched in every corner of the room - and as soon as one becomes visible, the dreadful sensation that they know everything about you begins to sink in. These cameras not only watch your efforts, but they know you, all the way down to your core. Every foul thought, every cruel secret, every lie; everything is catalogued by some unseen force, one that will gladly expose what you truly are to the world.

The only way to escape this is to find your way out of the maze. The glass walls of the tower offer no suggestions, no hints, and the watchful eyes of the crowds below have nothing to give you, just the same. The only thing they cast your way is judgement for any single movement.

You aren't alone in this tower, no matter how high up you climb. Be it through one of the many glass panels in the maze, or finding someone in your corridor, you may find a fellow detainee. You may be able to help one another to escape this place faster with two brains, two sets of eyes...

Except, of course, that this person will learn your darkest secret the second you meet each other's gaze.

Those who are outside the tower fair no better. Searching spotlights will find you just as you feel as though you've managed to hide from them, drawing the attention of the watchful crowds that fill this place, full of shrouded figures who's only discernible feature are their bright, watchful eyes of countless numbers. Those closer to escape, reaching the outskirts that lead to other domains, will find these crowds thinned, will find a new threat: cameras, boxy and clumsy, skitter along on clattering tripods, roving in packs. Should they spot you, they will descend upon you, their sharp stands maiming you in their attempts to drag you back, and their lenses pressed close to your face, shutters snapping loudly as they drink in every moment of your terror.

Don't count on escaping without being seen. Your hope is better placed in hoping that whoever sees you will be trying to avoid your attention, just the same.

Northwest Hollow

THE SLAUGHTER | The Farmlands

Fear of random, unpredictable outbursts of violence, pain, and death. Its most common manifestation is that of war and combat. However, it can apply to any form of random or mass violence.

CWs: war, gunfights, torture, harm of civilians in a war-zone, gore, loss of bodily autonomy, fits of unprovoked violence, military brutality, hypnosis.

The heartbeat in your ears thunders like the drums of war as you rush into the fields of battle, the weapon in your hand now a cruel extension of your own body.

Gunfire rains down upon you and your brethren, but no matter how many times you are mowed down, no matter how many bullet holes sear through your flesh and organs, you continue to rise to the occasion, over and over and over again. Your enemies have found you again, and they will see nothing short of your new home torn to pieces or burned to the ground. The only thing standing between your comrades and total destruction is your tools and your will to cut them down without reservation.

The sidelines of battle host only an illusion of being any safer than the battles themselves. Little farmhouses can only offer so much safety in the wake of stray bullets or carelessly-tossed explosives. Worse yet, they often become a target; how long will it take until the enemies set their sights upon one, to beat those inside within an inch of their lives, or shove a weapon into their hands, forcing them to take up arms against their own friends, neighbors, family?

Should the war drums in their chest be overwhelmed by the sounds of beating drums from the battlefield, maybe the weapon in their hands will no longer be an unwelcome addition.

The war is eternal, and your desire for blood to be spilled is insatiable.

THE VAST | Ripjaw Falls and the Black Jade Sea

Also known as the "Falling Titan" or simply "Vertigo". It is the fear of heights, falling, endlessness, and the existential dread associated with inconceivably large spaces like the open sky, the depths of the sea, and the entirety of the universe. It also addresses the fear and despair surrounding being very small in comparison with grander things so as to be pointless or infinitesimal.

CWs: megalophobia, thalassophobia, heights, very large open spaces, existential dread, infinitesimality, natural disasters.

Occupying a section of sea that looks far greater than it is and the bluffs which overlook it is the domain of the Vast. Stone to your back and toes hanging off the edge, whipping wind steals your breath as you try to inhale. Don’t panic, don’t scream, don’t look down, lest you tumble in to meet your fate on the rocks below. You’ve never seen Ripjaw Falls this close up before, have you?

The dreamlike quality of this miniature apocalypse tricks your mind, lengthening the drop. Below you, jagged rocks that ache upwards, entreating you to break your body, or a deep and dark sea. Above you, a ravenous, cloudless sky. Stand on the ledge until your legs fail you or bite the bullet and leap right in--- you can fall into either. Fall up forever into the endless blue or down, down into unfathomable ocean depths where air is always just out of reach.

If you wander into this domain from elsewhere, don’t worry; your helpful host Avatar will make sure you end up where you’re meant to. Maybe if you’re particularly unfortunate, you’ll be present when she brings about the collision of Concorde with her own Dark Planet--- a colossal rogue planet with a churning surface of hungry black and phthalo blue, consuming the entire sky until it leans in close to kiss the surface of the Earth on which you stand. There is nowhere to run. The collision is imminent. You have no choice but to be consumed by the inky surface, and find yourself afloat in the immense vacuum of space. Stars burn impossibly far away. You could float for a thousand years and never find solid ground, and you have never felt so small.

If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone to float with you in any of these spaces. It offers little solace. Pray that the endless expanse doesn’t see fit to rip you apart.

Northern Wilds

THE HUNT | Hatchet Lake and Surrounding Woodlands

Another fear born from that of animals, this is the fear of being prey or being chased by a relentless, violent pursuer. Manifests as predatory animals and monsters, animalistic tendencies and characteristics, and hunting of all sorts.

(CWs: violent pursuit, predatory behavior, animalistic urges, betrayal, violence with intent to kill, may include use of weaponry including knives and guns.)

Run, rabbit, run, rabbit,

Run, run, run!

It does not matter if you've been dropped in the woodlands behind Leeds Estate alone, or if you've been dropped with comrades. There are glaring truths that rule this place, and as soon as dead leaves crunch beneath your shoes, you know them implicitly.

One: You are being pursued.

Two: Everything that chases you is faster than you, stronger than you, smarter than you.

Three: You have done something wrong, and this misstep has not gone unnoticed.

Monsters in strange shapes and human forms alike prowl these woods, and running among them, you may find yourself changing, just the same. Rustling foliage and glimpses of bright eyes catching moonlight prevent you from ever truly being able to take a break, and every moment has the capability to be a fight for your life.

The options before anyone trapped here are laid out clearly: stay and fight, show anything that would dare challenge you that you are the apex predator here, or run, and save your fight for another day. Hunting or running in a pair or a pack poses it's own challenges; after all, won't the people nearest to you be able to see your weaknesses? Won't they kill you when they get the chance, to bolster their own chances? This, of course, is if you don't try to kill them first.

If the worst comes to pass, and something incapacitates you, don't worry. You won't go to waste. The Flesh Domain you'll be dragged to will see to it that no part goes unused, and once they're done, you'll be right back to play hide and seek all over again.

THE FLESH | Leeds Estate

Also occasionally referred to as "Viscera". This is a strange Fear that is primarily born of livestock animals and their fear of butchery. However, this also has expanded into human fears such as the existential dread of just being electrified meat, gore, body horror, and other more subtle fears and discomforts with one's body or physicality in general.

(CWs: body horror, gore, cannibalism, meat processing, dismemberment, torture, force-feeding, disordered eating.)

The stench of iron invades your nostrils as soon as you register your surroundings. Whether this is where you originally came to, or you were dragged into the belly of Leeds Estate from the Hunting Grounds out back, the first thought is always the same--- it reeks here. The second thing you register is the screaming, and the buzzing of sawblades.

Normally, Leeds Estate is immune to these types of horrors somehow, and serves as a safehouse in the event of emergency. This time, however, is different. After all, how could the House of the Dark Feast not entertain such a kindred guest as the Flesh?

The basement, which once held a lavish wine cellar, now is home to masked butchers and mechanical meat saws. Livestock are strapped to tables or suspended on hooks, where toothy rotary blades, bone saws, and wicked cleavers carve them apart, all while they are still alive. Layers of flesh are peeled back from bone, organs discarded, hunks of meat chopped into bite sized chunks, all while the livestock are awake, aware, and screaming. And in between cuts, the butchers sort the cuts of meat, critiquing them aloud, pointing out all manner of flaws. But these livestock are not cattle or sheep--- they’re people. And you’re next.

Once you’re stripped sufficiently bare, you’re set aside, body hurled into a “resting room” where you and countless others like you lie in a heap, waiting for your spent bodies to slowly, painfully regenerate. Maybe if you’re particularly unfortunate, your body will heal wrong, and fuse with that of your neighbor into some unholy abomination. It’s also possible that instead of the resting room, you’re merely discarded out the back door, where a Hunt domain offers new horrors that may very well land you right back here.

If you don’t end up as livestock, there’s a chance you are condemned to another fate--- one that is a different flavor of awful, emphasis on “flavor.” Upstairs, there is a dinner party being hosted by one Olivia Fleischmann, a Flesh Avatar and Infernal Servant of Aster. Gathered around the dinner table in evening-wear, goggle-eyed diners eagerly await plates full of meat, fresh from the butchers downstairs. They sit around Olivia’s table, speechless, shoveling their food into their mouths. Unable to stop themselves, and unable to ever shake that gnawing, aching hunger in their bellies, they inhale meal after meal after meal. You can be one of the insatiable few invited up to the dinner table as well, if that would suit you better. It’ll surely be a dining experience that you will never forget.

THE DARK | Lockwood Forest

An extremely old and deep fear of darkness, the unknown, and things that lurk out of sight in the darkness. Also sometimes called "Mr. Pitch" or "The Forever Blind". Often manifests as profound, endless darkness, shadowy figures, monsters that hide in shadow, deep and dark bodies of water and blindness.

(CWs: unreality, extreme darkness, hallucination.)

Once upon a time, there was a forest, dark and deep. The pine trees were as tall as a hundred men and covered the rolling hills and mountains with thousands of angry green teeth that cursed the sky and shrouded the land. And, most notably, it was laid with a blanket of eternal night. It was a cursed land, where the sun never rose and moons hid their faces.

This is where you find yourself now.

When you open your eyes, you almost can’t trust that you actually did so until you blink a few times. It is impossibly dark. So dark, and so sudden, that you feel alarm rising in your throat immediately. How did this happen?

You stumble in any direction and reach out, trying to get your bearings. Leaves and brush crunch beneath your feet, and your hands find their way to something--- a rough, cylindrical surface. A tree?

You look around, but to no avail. You still can’t see anything, it’s just an impulse. If you continue stumbling, you’ll find more trees. More brush, low lying plants, things of the like. Take care not to trip over rocks. It’s not hard to suss out that this is Lockwood Forest. But why is it so dark? Tipping your head up, you find that you can’t see the stars, or any of Concorde’s three moons. How could this happen?

Something snaps behind you. A broken twig. What was that? Far off in another direction, you could swear you hear a growl. The longer you try to see, the more your eyes play tricks. This is distinct from the simplistic, comfortable darkness of closed or even damaged eyes. This is the infinite, wide-eyed, disorienting blackness of the Forever Dark. And in that awful dark, your eyes begin tricking themselves into seeing shapes. Movements. And the sounds do not help. You need to get out of here.

Stumbling through the shadows, you go on and on, becoming wearier and more disoriented. Any time you stop to rest, you have no more than a few minutes before you hear something else. Breathing. A heartbeat. The sound of jaws opening. The crunch of leaves underfoot. Is it a person? Is it a beast? You can’t tell. You can’t leave it to chance. But as time trudges on you begin to feel a dread settle over you. One that says you could wander these blackened woods for a century and then ten more and never, ever find your way out. Surely it’s been hours now. Days, maybe. And yet, the dawn never breaks.

Every so often, you think you catch just the faintest glimpse of light. A shred of moonlight or the flicker of a candle flame. The first time you see it, it comes as a relief. An allusion to progress or rescue, perhaps. But once you see what it is the light catches, you are sure you were far better off without. There are things in these woods that want to harm you. You can only dream up what they might look like as a whole, but what you’ve seen can mean nothing good. You need to get out.

Good luck with that, though.

THE BURIED | Crane's Ridge Caverns

Also known as "Choke" or "Too Close I Cannot Breathe". Claustrophobia, the fear of being trapped without enough space, suffocation, being buried alive or drowning, or otherwise being crushed.

(CWs: claustrophobia, limited air, possible mutilation by crushing, intense hopelessness and despair.)

The caves of Crane's Ridge, though once thought to be almost entirely known known, now stretch eternally into the darkest recesses of Concorde.

This far below the surface of the world, you can feel it. How the planet breathes, like the rising and falling of a chest, an eternal rhythm unseen by the rest of the world. In these tight, ever-narrowing passages, the world's inhale crushes you, pinning you into place. Bones bend, fracture, break, circulation cuts off. You are in a snare of stone, mud, and soil, of dust and debris that threaten to fill your throat and eyes, suffocating and eternal. And yet, every time you begin to lose hope for finding your freedom, the world exhales at last. The walls grant you small freedoms. You are able to squirm, crawl, sink nails into hard soil and drag yourself, given these fleeting hopes of escape. For some, maybe they will find themselves in a new cavern, wide enough to stand, air scarce and stale. For those less fortunate, maybe they're only granted enough time to reposition themselves.

Whatever the case may be, the world will find a way to bear down upon all beneath its surface again with merciless force. If the stone, dirt, and mud are not able to crush you, the burdens of the world above that you cannot escape from will feel that much more present, and threaten to smother you under their weight just the same.

Perhaps you're one of the fortunate few who seems to have found a light at the end of the tunnel. Whether it be a fellow victim in this inescapable place, or a literal light at the end of the tunnel, maybe you've found some glimpse of freedom. All silver linings come with a catch, however; mudslides and earthquakes will drag you back down into the darkest recesses that you'd just managed to claw your way out of, and other people, desperate to attempt to escape with you, may pull you back in just the same, like crabs in a bucket.

You are stranded, Forever Deep Below Creation, and the longer you are here, the more the sun and the sky begin to feel like nothing more than a distant dream.

THE EXTINCTION | The Train

Also referred to as "The Future Without Us". This is a relatively new Fear that plays off of several others, but has begun to establish itself as unique as environmental issues and weapons of mass destruction become more of a pressing issue. It is the fear of apocalypse, of a mass extinction event created by human hands through violence or negligence.

(CWs: apocalypse, environmental destruction due to human behavior, human extermination, existential dread.)

There is a place where you can be safe from all this terror. You’ve seen the smoke signals, the flares up on the mountain’s peak. Emergency signals. Safety.

But how to get up there? The mountain itself is a domain until right near the peak. One owned by an entity that threatens to suck you beneath Cranes Ridge if you try to travel through it. So, you must take the train. Probably for the best--- no matter where you are in town, the journey to the South Station where the Hunt and Stranger domains meet was most assuredly a long and dangerous one.

There is someone already here, finding himself in the very front of the train---- Edgar, one of the young fellows from Baker Ranch. It is still, and seems unimpacted by whatever it is that’s going on. Maybe it’s an extension of the safe zone? It seems like the only thing amiss here is that it’s surprisingly full of garbage. Far more of it is plastic than seems appropriate for the location, and there seems to be some foul smelling liquid on the ground in a few cars. Oil? How odd. But it is otherwise empty, and cold.

After some fiddling with the controls however, it almost seems like the train might be non-functional. Until, of course, Edgar tries his hand. For some reason, the train will only run for him. But that could mean nothing.

Of course, it doesn’t. As soon as the train leaves the station, a belch of unruly, stinking smoke coughs out of the stack, followed by an excessive billowing forth of black and choking smog. Coal burns angrily within the engine, and the windows of each car begin to display visions of a terrible future. One where the land decays, burns, and freezes over with endless snow. Where oil and smoke and chemicals poison the land and kill everything in sight. Trash piles take human forms and attack passengers, spilled oil bubbles, smog rushes in through cracked windows to choke those inside. Riders are overcome with the feeling that this train and everyone on it are personally responsible for the death of the world. And none feel this more deeply than Edgar himself.

As soon as the train stops, however, the visions do as well. That’s a relief. It seems as though the Extinction’s youth as a Fear makes it less effective as some of its siblings. However, it does remain the only somewhat-safe way up to the top of the mountain. And it can only be run by one person--- the person most deeply impacted by the onset of the Extinction’s terror.

It seems as though the Future Without Us will make itself an Avatar yet.

THE SAFE ZONE

Regardless of if your freedom was hard-fought by trying to escape from the grasp of the Fears, or if you were plucked by an unseen hand and brought here for your own good, there is safety at the summit of Crane's Ridge.

It's a small foothold near the peak of the mountain, only enough for a small collection of people, but here, the terror that has swallowed the rest of the island cannot reach you. Wounds can begin to truly heal, both mental and physical, and the sky is clear, dotted with glimmering stars. All three of Concorde's moons shine above; with the way so many of the domains obscure the sky, this is the first time you've been able to see it clearly. It's difficult to enjoy such a beautiful night with the sounds of torment echoing out down below, of course. But at least, for the moment, you are safe.

Survival is no given here, as well; fires are lit and tended to keep people warm, and supplies to tend wounds are scarce. Survivalism skills here are more valuable than ever before.

Fortunately, with some reach there, Celestine, who admits to being the one who plucked certain unfortunate souls out of the start of the fray, can aid with the worst of it. But with the Barrier trapping the Fears inside as much as it prevents her reach fully inside, there's only so much she can offer to the few who have escaped towards her safety towards the sky.

Even with the hardships, though, the peak of this mountain holds a glimmer of hope. With any luck yet, together, those free from the Fears' grasp can keep each other alive until the calamity ends.

General OOC Information

Life Within the Fear Domains

It is important to note that the Fifteen Fears are derived from primal, existential, universal things that all living creatures have wired into their brain to some degree, as a matter of survival. They are based on not only the fears of human adults, but animals, and even children. As such, they are adaptable. They are capable of flexing and adapting to suit your terror. They don’t just feed on fear. They are fear. And as such, they know exactly what shape to take in order to cut to the heart of your terror.

That said, you must put your character in a situation they are meaningfully afraid of, or opt out. It’s not feasible to spend this entire event completely unafraid and in control of the situation, nor is it canon-compliant to TMA. (Avatars may be partially exempt from this, but it’s complicated---- see the Avatar section for details.) No-sells, moments of personal triumph, overcoming the Fears in their own domain, or avoiding a character’s personal terrors wholesale are not suitable for this event, and the event itself may not be suitable for certain characters as a result. If that’s something you want for the future, let’s do a rain check! But in this specific situation, fear is the goal. Opted out characters do play an important role in assisting and caring for new arrivals to the safe-zone and will be prioritized for interactions with Celestine, so please let me know if this is your plan!

Because of the dreamlike quality of the Fears and how that interacts with the barrier, for the duration of this event, (almost) no one is capable of completely dying. Instead, you will be able to sustain impossibly grave injuries and remain alive, allowed to slowly regenerate if you remain at rest long enough, keep going as normal despite the damage, or even simply reset to hale and whole in a blink, all in the name of reliving the torment. The only exception is the End.

Those who find themselves in the End and have it as a key source of their terror will be offered the opportunity for a rare ability--- to respawn from death in as little as three hours for the duration of the barrier. However, because this is a very generous gift, it comes with a high cost. Each cycle through the End’s gauntlet of deadly visions will be a chance to escape, but leaves victims with a new, carried-over injury. Players MUST roll a 17 or higher on a D20, or repeat the cycle. There are no modifiers--- the End adjusts to meet you at your level. You don’t necessarily have to write out every cycle, provided that you thread out at least a little bit, but you should make some narrative decisions as to injuries, scars, and exciting new traumas your character sustained during each cycle. You do not have to try for the bonus if the dice rolls are kicking your ass, but you do have to keep every attempt that you make canon. Additionally, it should be noted that this is NOT the same as becoming an End Avatar, although they can be linked. Characters who receive the bonus do get to keep it until the barrier goes down, but will feel a persistent, creeping anxiety about the barrier’s fall and the possibility of death returning, culminating in a profound terror when the barrier does indeed go down. The Fears don’t do anything to help anyone without a cost, after all.

Becoming an Avatar

Something that is possible within the Magnus Archives universe is becoming an Avatar of one of the Fears. This is when a person makes an agreement with one of these entities, accepting power from that Fear’s domain and becoming an extension of it, which can happen after prolonged supernatural exposure. It typically only happens to those with a strong predisposition towards it for one reason or another. Examples include things like aligning with one Fear that feels “safer” in order to protect oneself from another, or developing a relationship with a Fear that thrills you rather than being solely frightening, makes you feel important or powerful, or has a symbolic connection to you and your personal history.

This is effectively a deal with the devil--- accepting it does make you much more difficult to kill, and gives you thematically appropriate powers that often have a lot of utility, but it also means becoming an extension of that Fear and abandoning your humanity. In the podcast, Avatars have a biological obligation to feed terror to their patron by terrorizing people deliberately, and this remains true of Avatars that are present or created during this event. Once the incursion ends, it won’t be a requirement, but the temptation will be incredibly pressing, and you will find yourself handsomely rewarded for feeding what feeds you. Those who serve their patrons even in their absence will find their powers expanding, their physical strength increased, and their mood lifted. It’s amazing what a good meal can do for you!

In order to become an Avatar, there’s a few things that one should consider. It’s possible to functionally have an Avatar role over the course of the event, but shed it when the Fears leave. However, if you decide to carry it with you into the rest of the game, it is not reversible after this point. Additionally, becoming an Avatar is always consensual. Even if you don’t fully understand the gravity of what is happening or how it will impact you going forward, Avatarhood is always a deliberate choice. It involves a death of the self, whether that is a “death” of the body that marks the moment of transition or whether it is an ego death, this plot beat is a requirement in TMA canon, and thus is required here. Becoming an Avatar leaves you forever changed. And lastly, it should be thematically appropriate. It’s important to consider that you are becoming an embodiment of fear--- Desolation Avatars aren’t fire itself, but the fear of fire and everything that goes with it, for example. Even if something seems symbolically connected to an aspect of your character, it’s important to consider that terror is ultimately the linchpin of being an Avatar, which may be in conflict with other aspects of your character. Someone with a relationship with Mortanne, for instance, and an avatar of the End would find that they have little in common despite the shared motifs. If you’re not sure, reach out! Talk to a canon-familiar mod today to see if becoming an Avatar is right for you!

And lastly, becoming an Avatar isn’t an immediate given. It’s usually a process. In this case it’s expedited by the intensity of the miniature apocalypse, but it should still be something that one grows into with key character moments. As such, we’re asking that the change not be hand waved--- please make sure you write something out! Incorporating it into a thread is strongly preferred, but a solo writing piece such as a top-level feature may also be appropriate depending on the situation. Have fun experimenting with evil powers!

The Aftermath

Since the incursion is mostly an overlaying of dream logic with reality, townsfolk will find their environment has mostly gone back to a surprising degree of normal when the switch abruptly flips off at midnight on Halloween. However, everyone will reappear wherever they were the moment the incursion started, but in whatever physical condition the incident left them. This may result in a large amount of very abrupt deaths, so have fun with that! Those in the safe zone will be able to visibly see the change revert back from their vantage point on Crane’s Ridge.

Additionally, the train will also go back to normal, except when it is being driven by Edgar. That certainly can’t mean anything bad or scary at all.

Happy Halloween!

This event ICly be taking place from October 17th to midnight of the 31st.

Comments

[abhorrently]

(Wait, that's-)

Sparks around her help keep her nimble, but the beast is fast, and Fever finds herself seized, having been too engrossed in the show to pull away too far. Too bewitched by the display of her own power to be sensible about this. The crushing pressure of Allison will surely kill her - she remembers this, and how to extract herself, somewhere inside. But the scent of Allison's blood reaches her, and a crueler idea hits her.

"Ignis.

It's hard to aim, considering her position, but if she succeeds, the blood kerosene should catch and start to do what kerosene does best. If not, then her memory needs to hurry up already and tell her what she can do before she dies again, revealing all to be a cruel illusion of the End.

[cyansoldier]

(Is that—?)

The pain wrought by her adversary's lightning is sweater static in comparison to what sets her alight now. Ignis, she says. Summons a light so bright from the palm of her hand that at Allison's close distance, her vision blows out in white spots; film reel caught and burned in its last few seconds. Her blood catches, does what kerosene is meant to do. At once a soldier, now a walking lantern.

The pain is so excruciating she unhinges her jaw and can make no noise. Flames lick up the fur on her cheeks. She flings herself away and scrambles for relief, patting her body hard with her metal gauntlets and rubbing her face into the ground. She rolls the way alligators do after clamping something between their teeth. She rolls, and she screams a delayed scream— foamy, throaty, smoke-coughed staccato. Hurts hurts hurts hurts—

When up close, she had caught a scent from the woman.

That scent drifts toward her now.

And Allison is up again, scrambling senselessly toward the woman to investigate, smoke and flame still billowing up and around her body. It wouldn't be difficult to mistake this for another attack.

[abhorrently]

It's not a faultless plan - the kerosene catches on her where Allison bleeds on her, and burns join the host of injuries she has. It hurts, hurts, hurts, but she's free, and that's what she wanted, crawling away on the ground so she can regain some distance from her. Hurry, hurry, but her legs aren't cooperating, her magic feels like it's dwindling - she's been at this for so long, she's scraping the bottom of her imaginary barrel - and she grits her teeth to pull the scraps of energy together for one more hit. One more spell - it can't miss. The war machine needs to get closer, closer, because Fever can't afford to miss.

Knives are short range, after all, and she needs to find a place to settle down and rest for a few hours. This isn't bearable, if she can't catch a breath. She feels death on her, a great choking shadow, and she knows - fight or die. Win, or die. And winning is enough joy to keep her going, like a drug she drinks down over and over, chasing the high. Come on then. The amber dagger in her grip still cuts as sharply as it ever did, and if this isn't enough to kill? Then she knows another of the deathless walks among them.

[cyansoldier]

Allison reaches her in a blur of black and scratched metal, of smoke and flame and a scent like a factory's cough. She's hideous in the jerking, animal way that she moves. Contemptible for her mindlessness, glittering wet and empty behind her eyes. Machined to kill— but not now. There are certain signs, if one knows to look for them; cropped ears that point skyward instead of pressing flat; bared teeth tucked away behind a drooling lip. The gap is bridged. She tackles her to the ground. (I think— I know you.)

And wherever Fever finds the in to attack upward— and there are many— her blade will pierce without resistance. Kevlar will tear and new pours of kerosene will soak the earth. Allison pins one shoulder down. She drags her tongue across her teeth. What else to expect, other than a death clamp? Of having one's facial features pinched and torn away by a beast's front teeth? Allison's head drops low between her shoulders. Her breath is hot against the side of Fever's face.

But she does not bite.

She sniffs in a clipped, in-out rhythm. (I think—) Sniffs long, hard and investigative, pressing her wet nose into Fever's hair. (You're meant to be here.)

And like that, the fur-and-metal death is abated.

[abhorrently]

The stab goes in easily enough, kerosene soaking both of them. But before Fever can gesture like she needs to, her shoulder's pinned, and everything seems more acute to her. This is going to be an ending. She never really got out of that grave in the first place. Her eyes are wide - terror lashes across the air, and she wonders if it would be like the other wounds, or if she mercifully wouldn't survive and have to feel the crawling itching and aches while her body reforms.

But there are no teeth sinking into her. There's the vast presence, but it has decided to not kill. Is it a trick? Or does a creature of murder recognize its own?

She does not know. And for the moment, Fever stays very still, trying to figure out what is happening and what to do next.

[cyansoldier]

Arteries twist in sinuous branches under the skin she seeks with her nose. This person (Fever) is full of blood. Real blood, not the fake stuff flooding trodden valleys and down hillsides. The scent hooks in her nostrils, embeds like smoke behind her eyes. All burnished alloy and malt and candied roses she wants to gnash between her teeth to a fine pulp. If she were sat atop anyone else, she would have guzzled down their larynx and licked their bones clean of marrow.

Allison's tongue spoons out and drags across a thin gash set into Fever's cheek. Pack instinct. Her mind throws up simple thoughts; hurt, go, pack, blood, dirt, out, out. Clear infection. Wipe away debris. Tuck away the killing instinct. This friend is murder, and in that they're one and the same.

A rush of wind splits the field. The sky's gone red.

With much, much effort— lightning still sings under her kevlar skin, fire chews her nerves— Allison wobbles to stand. She whines, low and urgent. Wrenches a fistful of Fever's clothes to yank her ungracefully upright. Shelter. Den.

She searches the field and points with her nose when she sees it. A house perched between hills, wind-beaten but in the process of reconstruction. Gym equipment is knocked sideways by the collective war effort. Strawberries shine like globs of blood under the red sun. The house belongs to Carolina.

A fresh wave of enemies separate them from their safety. Allison sets upon them, snarling.

[abhorrently]

Dragged up, Fever can only follow, lost in a combination of exhaustion and confusion and concern, with the beating drums and the red sky. There is nothing here but the battlefield - there's the knife in her hand, which drips kerosene, but it's not her turn to die yet. It won't be her turn for a long while, as it happens. She doesn't know what will happen next, but there's enough grave dirt in her nails for her to not want to be there anymore if she defies how things should go anymore than this.

(The last one standing. She doesn't want to be here. It's what you were always meant to be.)

That's Carolina's house that the soldier is looking at. Huh. It can't be. Can it? Haven't stranger things been happening? Fever doesn't know, swaying a little on her feet before she follows Allison into the fray. Physical work, to rend enemies with dagger edge and spells, and they quickly fall before a shared assault. It's reflexive for Fever to cover her newfound ally as much as possible - after all, she's the reason that the soldier isn't at her best. Together, they fall into the rhythm of the slaughter again, drums underscoring their lashing out and the way their foes fall. They have to cut through, or they'll never find any shelter. So, because they have to, they will.

(One of them may also have pale hair, and Fever sets to the imitation with a ferocity dragged up from the depths of herself - instinctive and feral. Throat, heart, evisceration, and her heel brought down to destroy its face. Only when it assuredly isn't rising or twitching will she move away and stop acting in fury.

[cyansoldier]

Allison kills to the mechanic whorl of what was once a heart, self-preservation instinct swapped for unfettered dedication to her new ally. She fights to protect. She throws herself on the backs of offending bodies and wrestles their spinal nerves between her teeth, jerking in a tug-of-war to rip them away. She subjects skulls to the ten-ton force of her metal gauntlets— gropes heads by their scalps and subjects them, face-first, to the oven nested behind her ribs. They scream and melt and fall away like nothing.

The sun sets then rises again, faster than it should. All sense of time lost. Today is an every-day. Today is war.

Allison snorts massive globs of blood and viscera where they've impacted her nose. She's just ripped the spleen from a woman's body. It swells between her teeth like a balloon, gives off a putrid scent when burst, runs clear down her throat to evaporate in her furnace stomach. The woman is lean and pale-haired, twin to the ally she fights with. Allison flattens her ears. The body twitches under her, reeks of this place's illusion. She shakes away primal concern and sets off again.

(This Fever, like the Fever, like every Fever sating her blood-thirst in this field-turned-mass-grave, is utterly formidable, and Allison comes away with an ornate blade pierced straight into her temple. She makes no moves to remove it.)

The path is clear. Blood mixes with dirt to create a sickly paste under their feet. Allison butts Fever between the shoulders with her skull to usher her on, fresh waves of pain radiating where blade hilt juts out from her skull. She staggers, slides ungracefully down the muddy hill and lands in a pile of fur, metal and pain in Carolina's front yard.

[abhorrently]

They end up in Carolina's yard, and with the woman herself absent, Fever can only pray for forgiveness. Instead, she looks at her savior with an exhausted eye, her duplicate's blood splattered on her face, and draws near.

"Come here. Let me take care of that for you."

Slightly shaking hands can grasp the false blade and slide it out, tossing it aside. It's only a pale imitation of the real ones she keeps close, and not something she wants to keep. Every other Fever will perish. They have to. They can't get out of here. It's the same reasoning that kept her hunting herself when the dead rose, knowing how dangerous even just one of them on a merry rampage is.

If this place can't sing sweetly enough to get her to give in, it might drown her in false selves, every Fever who tried and failed or never tried at all. Obligation is as much a tether as nature is.

[cyansoldier]

The beast doesn’t brace. It stands dumbly and trusting as Fever reaches for the hilt— pulls the imitation blade gingerly out of Allison’s skull. She pules, but does not move. A spill of kerosene wets the fur at her cheek. Recognizing a helpful gesture requires a surprisingly small amount of sense. An animal smells kindness like it might the ozone of an approaching thunderstorm— like the first blooms of Spring— and Fever is perfumed in it. A stronger scent than any amount of blood.

She returns what she thinks is kindness— but what in reality is just sort of icky. Cleans a patch of skin at Fever’s cheek, all tongue and blood and saliva, every bit as enthusiastic as a dog under the pretense of doing a good job.

Allison noses her through the front door. Carolina’s house is mostly untouched. No blood, no bodies, no old bones. Just her things— of which she has very few.

Into the kitchen. She turns on the faucet with unnecessary force and sticks her head right under it, lapping wildly. When she’s satisfied with the amount she’s swallowed— and the mess she’s made— she fights open the cupboard for a glass— drops and shatters one— tries again and fills it with water. Holds it in both hands and presents it to Fever like a dead bird dropped onto a stoop.

[abhorrently]

Thank you, dog. She does her best to not grimace through it, but when the beast's back is turned, she wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. Ew. But they're inside. And it's quiet here in a way that feels like strings are cut, everything dulled down to a bearable level. She'll apologize to Carolina later for breaking in, for the mess, for all the rest of it. Sorry I ended up at your house with a strange canine soldier and we broke some of your glasses and bled on your floor.

It's a bizarrely fascinating thing to watch the creature drink. Enough man to stand up and fight, enough machine to not die, enough dog to drink from the tap. Huh.

When she's handed water, she finds herself nodding, a weary smile on her lips. How long has it been since she had water? She couldn't say.

"Thank you. We should probably rest here for the time being."

Let the wounds heal, and let her plot how she's going to get out of this place.

[cyansoldier]

Rest. Simple enough to understand. Rest, like heel, like guard, like kill. One word to encapsulate a motion. A finger's tick to trigger a muscle contraction— or in the soldier's case, a trigger pulled, a blade unsheathed, an explosive unpinned and sailing. One word to penetrate the inadequate brain. She bows her head and does as she's told.

Even machines tire out. The fire, raging once, is now a dull glow in Allison's gut. Kerosene trickles from splits in her kevlar tissues, body rippling weak flames where her blood catches and lights. Fever's elements were not kind to her. Nor were her copy's blades.

Allison leads her into the living room. It's a mostly empty space. Knotty pine floors, unrugged. Sofa, draped in a heavy blanket. On the coffee table are a few loose-leaf pages— bits of a bullet journal. An entry is started and abandoned;

- Can't sleep. Fix that.

- New job?

- Name the thing outside. Living things deserve names. Wonder if it would pick is own. Options? Blue dog. Punchy. Epsilon. E.

- He was here. He was here and you didn't

She trots toward the couch— collapses onto the ground beside it.

[abhorrently]

Fever sits heavy on the sofa, eyes falling on the pages. Impossibly neat writing. Things about Carolina that feel like peering through a crack in her bedroom wall, and yet, she reads them anyway, unable to resist. Problems unfold before her eyes, and she wonders if they'll be solved. If the blue one will get a name. If Carolina will get rest.

(She likes Punchy.)

Who was here.

Not hers to pry about, and certainly not now. Instead, she looks to her companion.

"...Sorry about all that."

And sorry to Carolina for the stains she'll leave on this blanket, lying down like she is. She'll fix it somehow. Her eyes are too heavy to think about it more, and she lets her limbs go limp. Finally. Finally.

[cyansoldier]

Fever's apology falls on stalwart ears. Her body is made to be racqueted. Metal, smelted and beaten back into shape. Kevlar, brought together again by thick seams. Over the course of the night— if it can be called night, with that red War's sun always burning— Allison's inner core will become radiant again, and she'll step back onto the battle field. Stay there until she's won.

For now, she watches. Surveys the scent of the air, thickened by fear. Someone's, somewhere— ravaged. Her companion, limp on the couch. Relief. The sheet of paper— (mine?)

Her mind steps closer to awareness— just for a second. Enough to take the pen, sat by the page, into her cold hand and scrawl out a message. The force of her script sows tear-lines through each letter.

ITS OK