Field Mission 5: Il Prigioniero, Part 2

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Once you sacrifice something here, you don't get it back. NAVIGATION Click here for the RNG thread! 1. THE MANAGER'S CHALLENGE A. MEET THE BOSS Once upon a time, there was a man, a woman, and a little boy. They were a family. They loved each other very much. Once upon a time, there was a monster, a protector, and a dreamer. They never asked to be a family. One by one, they fell under the pressures of each other. There are always layers to any story. There are at least two sides to any reality. When a man kills his wife with no consequences, what is the end of the story? Will the universe allow such an unhappy ending? Or are there forces that drag it on long past its natural span? With a single act of resistance, four Reclaimers have Remembered and thereby broken the cycle of the Night Show. But this isn't the end. This is barely the middle. Because the Wonderland you've seen so far is a layer of new pink skin over an ugly infection, one that goes deeper than anything the Bureau has seen so far. You can see what's underneath, now, as the theme park is whipped away in an implosion of void-space to show you . . . Emptiness. A space that is no space, blank and white in all directions. Free of gravity, every Reclaimer in the park — and, shockingly, Angus McDonald — is held in place with hands cupped and outstretched in front of them, all facing the same way. They cannot move. They cannot speak. They are the audience. Before them stands a man. Slim, tall, nondescript. He wears a bow-tie with a pattern of Rolands on it. And he is smiling. "Welcome to my Wonderland! My name is Adrian Morgenstern, and I am the Manager. It's a pleasure to meet you. Each and every one of you have had a very interesting effect on my Wonderland in my absence. Some more than others, and at greater cost to yourselves — but I encourage individual choice in Wonderland, and ownership of personal consequences. Suffering is a part of life. It builds character. "So, I am proud of you. So proud, in fact, that I've decided to bring you all backstage. You kept trying to see behind the curtain, didn't you? You'll really enjoy it. There is a great deal to do, so much to explore, and so many games to play. Every second you breathe in Wonderland is a game with stratospheric stakes. You're very brave to take the risk. "And to make things more interesting, I have set up a very special game for you little detectives, who so love to stick their noses into strange secret corners. I challenge you to a Scavenger Hunt. You accept, because you have no choice. Here is what you must gather: "The vacant bodies of Leonardo da Vinci, Minato Arisato, and Henrik Merryweather. The people who have been lured here after your carelessness shattered their livelihood. Have you located them all already? Or did you miss a few? Ten lost little elves, misled and apprehended. And, lastly— "My son. Bring me my son. Bring Niel to me, and I will give you the Compact." There's a crack in the facade. A literal crack; something in the structure of his face is off suddenly, like something has fractured and slid. One cheekbone higher than the other, a hairline fracture underneath his eye. You blink, and it's fixed. His smile is wide, but his face is whole. Suddenly, in each Reclaimer's outstretched hands (and in Angus's), there is a single three-sided die. On each side is written a word: BODY, MIND, or SPIRIT. "Don't lose these, now! These are your cheat codes. If you find yourself struggling with the scavenger hunt and in need of a little help, you can play a little game of chance to give Wonderland something of yours. It won't take anything that will kill you, don't worry. But it will take things that matter, and it won't give them back. "One more thing, and then I'll let you go. I've given you some cheats, but in order to keep you from finishing the game too quickly, I'm taking something away, too. Everyone, please take good care of yourselves while you're here. You're all precious cargo. And there's no healing in Wonderland." He winks. And blinks out of existence. And suddenly, the nonspace you occupied is gone, and you are Somewhere Else. Back to top 2. WONDERLAND, UNDER THE SKIN B. THE ILLUSION COMES DOWN CW: Emetophobia, body horror, reality caving in on itself For a short time after Adrian leaves, everything is as it should be. Wonderland is Wonderland, but quiet and still aside from the background music. After a few breaths, heartbeats slowing, the music warps and bends like rotting wood, going further and further off key until it grinds. Clangs once, loudly, down to your bones, and halts. The world freezes in absolute silence. Then. A sizzling noise. Burning paper. The illusion starts to die. To your left, the floor peels up like it's made of paper, mist, waving like a mirage before your eyes. Colorful red velvet floors reveal dark green and glowing violet moss and fungus. Gold tile floors give way to ebony wood, gone rock solid in atrophy. Disease. A small black vine reaches from the floor towards you, towards Life, but withers and hardens before your eyes. You need to leave. To your right, a wall bleeds. Is it actually blood? Sap? The color seems to run away from your eyes - goldredwhiteyellowblackblackblack - covered with an iridescent sheen, an oil slick, pouring out and up and towards in ways that burn your eyes and soul. You need to leave. All around you, the Wonderland you've come to know burns like shadows in sunlight, or sunlight to shadow. The ceiling and walls and everything morphs to the inside of some unfathomably large tree. Roots and branches and gouged out holes, forming paths of the most non-ecludian sort. Some... things out of sight climb up and down in the darkness, looking for purchase, escape, travel. Far too many limbs, or none at all. You need to LEAVE. Not yet. You want to help. You need to help. You grab the nearest non-reclaimer - an elf, a visitor, someone - and they are both far too light and far too heavy. Stiff like wood in your hands. Their skin is gray, ashen, black veins in porcelain skin. Eyes gone solid black, they try to say something, but all that comes out is a spew of thick black tar - leaking from their eyes, ears, nose, vomit, cracks in their joints and once-flesh. The amorphous Black they just expelled pulses, then skitters down between the wood at your feet. You look at your skin. Your veins are too dark. Visible. Present. A weight builds in your heart, The Reclaimers (and Angus) can still move, bolt for what was once a cascade of colors, lights and joy. Now it's a gaping maw, jagged edges like splintered teeth around a hole like a cavity, sap like pus seeping out of the edges. The once-elevator now-branches bring you back to Shadowdale, covered in a charcoal smog that seems to smile at you from every angle. C. THE CAVALRY ARRIVES Lucretia, after receiving Sans' text about the current state of affairs within Wonderland, is faced with a decision that only she could make. Years ago, she came upon this place and lost decades of her life, all in an attempt to stop the mechanations of this horrific landscape. Her biggest failure, a thorn in her pride, she assembled the Bureau of Balance not long after her visit in order to take down places like this. People or things who obtain a power they should not have. She doesn't know why Wonderland is the way that it is, she can only guess that the Grand Relic has corrupted the World Tree down to its core. But more than that, more than the years she put onto her life for a wager of chess, more than the meticulous, maddening obsession she has with destroying every single one of these objects that threaten the world- her Reclaimers are here. Her Reclaimers. Against the judgment of most of her advisers and Moon Base employees, she grits her teeth and holds tight to her staff. Carey, Killian, and Lucretia descend upon the forests of the Cormanthor region. It takes them far, far too long to make it through the wilds. The forest can sense when someone is coming to destroy it, and thus, sends everything it can against them. Enchantment after enchantment gets flung their way, but she knows better. She's seen Wonderland before and she reckons that no one has ever visited this place twice. Arriving in Shadowdale, she looks up to see Yggdrasil in its sad, sorry state. Clasping her staff in place, finally here, she is resplendent in her detestation of this unholy place. A few of you might be there at the base of the tree when Wonderland transforms into its hellscape, and you might see her approaching, purposeful, as if every step is one of reclamation and poise. Angus McDonald looks upon her and tilts his head, trying to figure out what exactly it is that's going on. Lucretia warmly smiles at him. "Hello, Angus. I've heard much about you." "Ma'am?" But her attention is turned to another little boy, terrified otherwise. His face is darkened, sickly colors rooting through his veins and showing up against a pale skin. Niel. Ah, she remembers him, too. Her face gives no sign of anger, of fear, or resentment. "Don't worry, Niel. We'll free you from that monster." She doesn't renege on her promises. Lucretia slams her white oak staff on the ground and in an instant, a flash of brilliant luminescence fills all of Shadowdale, expelling the darkness that lingers around the corners of the sleeping town. She erects a magic dome from the center of her origin, expanding out from her as she concentrates on her magic. Lucretia's gifted in the arcane herself, you see, and a giant Globe of Invulnerability spell now blocks entrance nor exit from this zone. And for the first time in centuries, Shadowdale sees sunlight. Carey and Killian flank her. She needs to concentrate on this spell in order to keep it active, and they're there to stop anyone who thinks about getting in her way. D. NEW RULES OF WONDERLAND It's a zero-sum game here that Adrian is wagering. Lucretia didn't bring Dr. Tank down to Shadowdale for a very specific reason; an expert chess player herself, she always thinks in terms of move by move encounters. She figures that the rules would change quickly once the Reclaimers had figured out what was behind the curtain, so to speak. There's no way that Wonderland would allow healing or restoration of a body within its confines. She aims to cut this place off from the outside world. To quarantine it away from escape and cage it inward like an animal. No, Dr. Tank would be useless here, and if anything... dangerous, to put their chief of medical staff here in the middle of the mission. And thus, no one can come in or out of the area once she's erected the barrier. Returning to base is no longer an option for the remainder of the mission, including any and all facilities provided by its administration: Bender's food, Fantasy Costco, items you may have left behind, etc. Those of you who have opted out of the horror plot for the month will most likely be spending your time in Shadowdale for the next two weeks, providing back up and support to Lucretia. The work you do out here is equally as important as the work that needs to be done on the inside. Whereas the forest was quiet and still before, it seems to have taken on a new life of its own, now that it senses the Source of its life deeply threatened. Killian takes command from here on out. Anyone not willing to go up to Wonderland needs to stay down here and stop the encroaching darkness from attacking. And she means that, literally. As you look around the outskirts of town, the dome extending well beyond the vantage point you can see, there are creatures, made of darkness, dripping a deeply red sap that sparkles in the newfound texture of light Lucretia's spell provides. One bounds forward from the edge of a building, four legs crawling and made of pure shadow, and attempts to make an attack towards the Director. Carey cuts it down as it splits into two and vanquishes into a dark dust. "What the hell are these ugly gods-damned things?!" Some of you might've noticed it before in your rolls, but in the light provided by Lucretia's spell, there's no denying it. Negativity forms a dark cloud straight from Carey's mouth, as her eyes go wide at the sight of it. The monster at her feet, now a cloud of dust, seems to feed on it as it reassembles back into its form. What the actual fuck. Back to top 3. A TASTE OF GOOD SUFFERING E. REEDS GROWING OUT OF MY FINGERTIPS The Wonderland the Reclaimers and Angus find themselves in now looks nothing like the Wonderland they left behind. The feel of it is similar, except that the creeping dread has officially crept. It's here now, fully-formed and breathing down the back of every single neck. What was whispered before is screamed now: Wonderland is here to hurt you. The fun it seeks is not for you, but fuel for something else, something you haven't found yet. Nonetheless, you're here to feed it. And so, you begin to realize, is Yggdrasil. The naturally-minded among you begin to realize it with sickening certainty: the roots, the veins, the stiffness and the ever-present tarlike substance stem from the sickness of the World Tree. Wonderland, and all of you, are within Yggdrasil's rot now — and as much as it tries to reject this magic, the insidious power of the Compact has taken over too far. The tree is dying. Inside of it as you are, you can practically feel it. The entire place is a warren, structured like the tree it's draining the life out of. From the central trunk, the central locations that used to be Squares slide off from the main body in long, twisting branches that turn in nonsensical directions before abruptly coming to a halt. Each Square exists in uncomfortable parody here — or maybe the original was the cruel joke, because the purpose of Wonderland is suffering. At any turn in your path through the channels of Wonderland, you'll be swimming through darkness creeping in on all sides. No light can penetrate past your periphery, with very few exceptions; you are a moving lantern in this blackness, functioning on faith that whatever comes at you, a mystery until the last moment, will be something you can handle. Stumble into Battle Square and find yourself face-to-face with a monster of vicious intelligence and amorphous shape, delighted to cut you to ribbons over a period of hours while telling you every secret shame you've ever harbored. In Event Square, a knot midway up the endless trunk, time goes taffy-sticky as you trip through loops of memory blasted on every wall, loud and confusing and overwhelming, going on for what seems like forever. There's more, of course — more discrete spaces than you could even see in Wonderland. Any manner of horror you can consider can be found here, as vast as Yggdrasil itself. One or two places, though, will be particularly easy to recognize — and difficult to escape. F. THIS IS NOT FOR YOU Sometimes, investigation gives us little tips and tricks for solving the next stage of the puzzle. For example: Michael found a map to the mirror maze, back in the first iteration of Wonderland. But unfortunately, sometimes the setting also cheats. Ghost Square is still here — but maps aren't going to do you any good. Enter this section of Wonderland and the door behind you doesn't exist anymore. It doesn't pop out of existence; it just isn't, like it never was, like maybe you imagined it in the first place. A hallway, apparently manmade, stretches out in front of you, dark and cold. It appears to be approximately 60 feet long. The walls are black. When you reach out to touch them, they are freezing to the touch and too smooth to be natural, not shiny enough to be polished, too hard to be plant matter. You have no idea what they are, but touching them saps the warmth out of you, so you stop. You keep walking, a halo of light around you but stretching no further than a few feet in any direction. You walk for 60 feet. The hallway keeps going. It hasn't gotten longer, but it hasn't gotten shorter, either. It keeps going. It keeps going. You continue until your feet hurt or you get sick of this bullshit, whichever comes first, and then you turn back the way you came. Maybe you think you'll see a door, or maybe you're not thinking very clearly anymore. Back the way you came, there is a staircase. It wasn't there before. You certainly didn't pass it. It spirals down into the depths. It could be a story deep or a hundred. You have no way to know. You turn back towards the direction you originally walked, and there is only a wall. It's the spiral staircase or it's nothing. You go down. As you descend, it gets colder. Colder and darker, and the darkness and cold press against you, creep under your skin and make you shake. The halo of light around you begins to dim the deeper you go. If you go deep enough, it will be hard to tell what's light and what's your imagination. Because really, honestly? The longer you stay in this place, the more you begin to think you're hearing things. Whispers just beyond your ability to decipher. A soft laugh, like that of a child or someone trying to stay quiet. And if you stop, or rest, or feel something negative — anger, frustration, sorrow, despair, it doesn't matter, because a black fog drifts out from between your lips. And in the distance, something roars. Just a little bit closer every time. Every once in a while, as you descend the staircase, you will pass a mirror with a red X taped near the top. Sometimes you'll see yourself in it. Sometimes you'll see something worse. When you get right down to it, what you get out of the world has a lot to do with what you put in — so we hope you're staying positive, or you might see something really nasty. G. THE SONG BEYOND THE SONG The aftermath of MARIA's destruction, the Area That Was Once The Night Show is a blasted husk. More than anywhere else, the walls ooze Yggdrasil's lifeblood from where something... was. Something large used to be chained here. Open gashes and empty sockets line the walls and floor. A large root knotted like a spine shoots through the very center of the room, a support pillar, entwined into the ceiling and floor and Everything of this cavern. Growths like tumors rise from the floor - what was once gambling tables look more like grasping hands. A few curl into themselves, knocked over, shattered to splinters in the wake of what was once there. Maria is gone. She is free. There is a sob. Small. Weak. Mortal. At the base of the pillar, half-absorbed into the plant matter of Yggdrasil is Stylosa. Black roots creep up through her arms, chest, face. Her tears are tinged black, but the eyes are still hers. One arm reaches out. She whispers 'please help, it hurt̷̟͂s̶͕̓ ̵̻͂ĩ̸̺t̸͔͐ ̴͙̍ḧ̷̜́ù̸̘r̶̢̓t̶́͜s̸̫͒ ̸͑ͅî̶̺Ṱ̴̿ ̵̠̃H̷̙͊U̸̻̒R̶̯͛T̸͓͠S̸̢͌`- The world goes static, right then wrong then right again, and the original Wonderland surrounds you. Silent - for a second. An explosion of color and canned applause comes from behind you. What was once a stage opens once more. There is the Henrik some of you were searching for, skin plaster, eyes matte black, a rigor mortis smile across his face. His voice booms out of speakers that aren't there. "Welcome, one and all, as we embark on this, our first night! To the new and improved Night Show, with one hundred percent more audience participation!!! Guaranteed to keep you rooted to your seats, haha!" Confetti falls from nowhere, more false cheers from an invisible audience. He bows, stiff and chipped as a wind-up toy. It gives you a chance to angle your gaze to where there used to be an exit. It is there no longer. Doors appear and disappear in wrong places. Chandeliers swap between designs. The new Show is still trying to acclimate itself. "Now, I know some of you have had a bad time here before, but please romaine calm. We-" And then Da Vinci's Body, appearing from nowhere, the same black eyes and battered smile, smacks him upside the head. A slapstick comedy in all the worst ways. "That one doesn't work! We're in an ash tree!" "No, we're in a cactus!" "Ahahaha! Oh, Henrik, you know I'm a succa for your jokes!" Both them and the invisible audience crack out into raucous laughter, doing matching poses like they're both on the cover of Vogue magazine. They whisper something to each other and 'Da Vinci' runs off stage to prepare. "Tonight, in celebration, we'll be holding our first ever... talent show!!! Our main acts are just boooring now. You know what I mean? Look at this mess-" A hand waves out, and Minato unfolds up from the floor, harp welded into his hands, painted and decorated and held in place with pipes and wire. 'Da Vinci' waves her arms, unveiling the elaborate music box. His hands play against his will, plinking out the sad notes to a certain Velvet Room theme. He gets left alone in tired silence for a bit before a note goes off key. 'Da Vinci' yanks his face into the same smile, freezing it in place. TODAY IS A JOYOUS DAY, we are all so very HAPPY, and the eyes of 'Minato' go black. The room is filled with cheers and rainbows, an excited irish jig played out by their wind-up stage musician. 'Henrik' doesn't wander the room, choosing instead to make sure the background music keeps going. The statues and paintings once lining the walls bend before your eyes - reforming into memories from your home, replays of your failures, but all done up in catchy pop-art style and played for hilarity. Rather than Marias, all newcomers are visited by a black-eyed ghoul wearing a human skin. They hand out drinks and paperwork, what would you like to participate with in our talent show? The winner not only gets a job but- One wish from the Compact. Surely that's way more interesting than trying to get out, right? Back to top 4. OOC In order to keep to our goal of providing the most personalized Wonderland experience for all of you, we're setting a limit of 1 RNG attempt per character this log. Additionally, please be aware that while some mundane rolls will have standard-level DCs, many rolls, including those with the potential to uncover plot information, will be high-risk high-reward and will have a very high DC along with steep penalties for failure. As always, we will let you know of this before we roll, and you have the option to decline any roll at any time. If you would like to gain a bonus of +2 on any given roll, those who have opted in to horror content may make the choice to sacrifice something of body, mind, or spirit. We will determine your sacrifice based on your horror homework. It is up to you whether this sacrifice is for the duration of the mission or a permanent sacrifice. As an additional reminder, there is no healing in Wonderland. To a few of you, this will be even more detrimental than usual. To those of you who went too far with your debts or your choices, who have lost your very Selves to Wonderland. A list: ○ Michael ○ Kaede Akamatsu ○ Minato Arisato ○ Akira Kurusu ○ Guido Mista ○ Ryuji Sakamoto ○ Leonardo da Vinci ○ Willard H. Wright Despite Lucretia's spell, the Light won't effect you guys. Over the course of part 2 you'll find you're slowly falling prey to what hit everyone else in wonderland. Your skin will turn pale, your veins will turn dark, you'll start vomiting viscous Abyss that occasionally comes to life, and eventually your eyes will turn black and you will Petrify. Should you as a player not want to play out the vomiting part, it can be exchanged with breathing out black mist. Whichever's cool with your school guys. The speed/intensity of this change and all of its symptoms is also up to you. There are two exceptions. Da Vinci, while she is still a Roland, will simply start going rotten, seams growing old and fur collapsing away. Constant Mending will mitigate this, but she's on a timer to get her body back now. Willard will find that as the hardening of the glass continues, it will start to lose all color and begin to crack in places. These cracks will leak the same tar infecting the other players. Minato, despite being a Music Box right now, is still in his physical body and is not an exception. On a more general note, we encourage you to make your own mini-horrorscapes in this setting! The entirety of Wonderland is available to dark-side, with the exception of what we've already laid out for Ghost & Wonder Squares. Improvise and make a mess. Just make sure to tag anything warning-worthy. Anything on the OOC post is fair game, and if there's something you'd like to try, please don't hesitate to let us know on the RNG thread. Should you have any questions, please direct them to the OOC post linked above. Back to top blurb code by photosynthesis

Comments

[hxppythxughts]

[It's both too long and not long enough. Gradually the alarms of life and death begin to ebb, but as they quiet, they make room for shame. And as they do, the landscape changes again, something that can't be identified as any place or thing--it's most like static, and it's most like a feeling, a feeling of being trapped, grinding and grinding against a cacophony of colors and pixels--

Monika's voice again. Or is it? It sounds like something that's supposed to sound like Monika, remind you of Monika, but may not be Monika.]

"There's a little devil inside all of us."

Beneath their manufactured perception - their artificial reality - is a
writhing, twisted mess of dread.

Loathing. Judgment. Elitism. Self-doubt.

[This awful ugliness inside of her, the lie that she'd never think of going through with something like this--no one should have ever seen it. No one should know. No one should have their eyes opened to this terrible reality.

No one should...

Shoulds and shouldn'ts are kind of made up, Sayori.

She holds tighter to Mista and keeps breathing. The flow of black mist from her mouth stutters, tangible evidence of her holding onto his words, onto the motions of his hands, despite Monika-not-Monika's words and the awful wail of sound surrounding them.]

All thrashing to escape the feeble hold of their host, seeping through every little crevice they can find.

[protegge]

Well, no shit.

[It's not even negative, exactly. Or not wholly. There's a soft trickle of negativity that slips from his lips, but that's because of what he's feeling for Monika-not-Monika. What he wants to say, which is fuck you.]

People reach out for help when they feel bad. Even when they don't want to 'cause they don't think they deserve the help, they still reach. So what? It's a good thing.

[Burying his nose in Sayori's hair, he nods, confirming what he's saying in words and motion.]

It's not bad to show the rough side of yourself. That's fucking important. That's how it's supposed to be.

[hxppythxughts]

[His words war with the projection of memories inside the tree, of data which was coded but which Sayori wasn't privy to. The voice keeps speaking, but Mista speaks over it, causes it to muffle behind static and flickers of the clubroom, a place with happier memories.

Sayori turns her head slightly, finally catching sight of it all out of the corner of her eye. The resulting spike of fear is enough to make the voice audible again.]

Such a deplorable, tangled mass is already present in every single one of them. That's why I choose not to blame myself for their actions.

All I did was untie the knot.

[She huffs out a wheezing breath and shakes her head, closing her eyes again and trying to swallow the knot of shadow that rises in her throat. Her voice sounds like it's gone through a sander.] I didn't want...to scare anyone.

[People get scared, when you talk about having this kind of stuff in your head. Sayori only ever wanted to make people smile.]

[protegge]

[I choose not to blame myself for their actions. Mista snorts, derisive, and shadow slips from his nose despite himself. He knows better, it's just — God, get fucked.]

[Whatever. Forget it. This isn't real. None of this is real except Sayori, right here and right now, close and clinging in his lap, needing something better than the bullshit she's being fed by this voice and the inside of her own head. Sometimes he thinks he was built for this: to be a shield against all comers, wherever they come from. Inside or out. Whatever shape their weapons take.]

I'm not scared.

[His fingers card through her hair, falling into a rhythm now. His whole body curves over hers, braced against the unreality she's facing.]

Not of this. Losing you, maybe. But you feeling this bad, thinking this stuff . . . nah.

[How could he be scared of something that's just — part of her?]

[hxppythxughts]

[His hand in her hair feels nice, an anchor against the roiling riptide of all the information around them. Mista is always so nice to her. Almost everyone in the Bureau has been really nice to her--what can she possibly do to deserve that except be the umbrella when they have little rainclouds? To make sure they can smile even when she feels like she has no bottles left to give?

The voice all around them is no longer the one that may be Monika--it's Sayori, but she hasn't opened her mouth to speak. It's a Sayori that wasn't, a Sayori that could have been, giving voice to the profound gratitude inside of her.] I wanted to thank you for spending so much time with us all...

Only someone who truly cares about the Literature Club would go that far.

[She sniffles.] I should... [No. Shoulds and shouldn'ts are made up.] ...I wanted to tell you...before. But...

[But.

Even worse than the little devil inside of her, the devil she knows, how do you tell someone you might not be real?]

[protegge]

[It's a funny thought, one that's easy enough to turn around were she to voice it. Whether she'd believe it or not is another story, because the loudest voice in her head will always be her own — but the fact remains: she can be the umbrella all she wants, but when the flood rises inside her, as it will, someone needs to be her boat. Or someones. Clear as day to him.]

[There are parts of this he doesn't quite understand yet, despite all the pieces being laid in front of him. The trouble with a place like Wonderland is that it's difficult to tell what part of an experience like this is real and what is metaphor. Mista knows this, too, even as he's entirely unable to articulate it. The more time he spends thinking about it later, the more he'll understand — make connections between the static and gaps in Sayori's memory back in Lyrabar and the glitching he's seen here. For now, though, he's so thoroughly in crisis management mode that the rest of his brain can't quite keep up.]

[Not that that matters too much. His reaction would be about the same. The Sayori that could have been lives inside the Sayori that is, he thinks; is someone she could be, could reach, if she gave herself a chance. The Sayori that could have been is just the Sayori that is, with her hands outstretched and her mouth sometimes willing to form anything other than a frown.]

[They're both Sayori. So they both matter, so much.]

It's okay. I know you would've, when you were ready.

[Blowing lightly on her hair to make it puff up a little, he squeezes her tight.]

Shit's hard. Don't beat yourself up for not meeting some kinda made-up honesty deadline.

[A moment of quiet. Then he closes his eyes again, focuses on the warmth of her and the steadiness of his own breathing.]

. . . Hey. You're crazy strong. You know that, right?

[hxppythxughts]

[In that moment of quiet, time stops. Everything stops--the movement, the noise, the chaos and pain. It's the space between breaths, between heartbeats. A stopper in the fountain of code spilling over its edges.

Sayori finally shifts. She uncurls slightly, pries a hand away from her neck and notices the blood for the first time, and everything jerks to life again, bouncy music grinding like it's trying to load on dial-up. She swallows a knot in her throat and her eyes well up at the sting--in her throat constricting, in the deep scratches her own panic has left her with, in her heart at his unspeakably kind words. She notices then that his arm is--God, it's bad, and she places a hand up at that shoulder but she can't heal here. He's injured and he still caught her.

The world glitches and the music unsticks.] It's kind of sad, you know? After all you've done for us, there isn't much I can do for you in return.

[She squeezes her eyes shut and sniffles. Her words are thin, as are the small trails of shadow that she can't stave off completely. There's movement in a corner of the room--not the memory, but the monsters, slowly coming to life.] You're... [Too kind. No, she doesn't say that. Her voice, already broken, cracks against a smile full of self-doubt. She wants to believe him, but how can that be true when she's ended up like this?] ...really nice. Ahaha...

[protegge]

[Honestly? Yeah, he's fucked up pretty bad. His arm's broken. His rib's broken. He's pretty sure it's scraped up against his lung, because breathing gets harder with every hour that passes. It's possible that he'll die before they finish this thing. In which case . . . he already knows what'll happen. He's seen it in Blake. In Farnese, too.]

[So maybe it's resolve. But maybe it's just stubbornness, too. Maybe it's a willingness to throw himself into the fray for as long as it takes to get the people he cares about to safety? To do the right thing? Oh, it's definitely that. Without question, he's self-sacrificing in a way so instinctive he has to work to think about it.]

[But it's not like he wants to die. Not like Sayori does. Even if he couldn't explain the difference, he knows it's there. Does she think that makes him stronger?]

[He really doesn't understand. But he can read her just fine.]

It's okay if you don't believe me. I believe it a lot, 'cause it's true, so I'll just believe enough for both of us.

[His Stands chatter to him from above, quiet alarm in the face of the growing monsters. Is there a way out of here yet? A few go to look; a few stay behind. Mista doesn't move, not yet. Just pushes Sayori's hair out of her face, rakes it back with all the fingers on his good hand, and smiles at her. Tired, but warm.]

[There isn't much I can do for you in return. She really doesn't know, does she?]

Hey. Sayori. You know anything about a paladin's duty?

[She's one of those people who . . . give him something worth fighting for.]

[hxppythxughts]

[As far as an exit goes, it's difficult to say. The shape of the clubroom occasionally peeks through the static and the garbled nonsense that were probably other places, other settings, like it's fighting to be seen. And that shape does have an exit out into a hallway. But the hallway is part of the game too, isn't it? The music sounds faraway out there to the tiny ears of the Stands--closer to reality, maybe. Further away from the scene, definitely.

Despite the deep tangle of self-loathing in her heart, despite the sludge of depression telling her that she doesn't deserve to believe it, his words do make her happy. Her smile gains some strength. The flow of shadow slows, the movements of the beasts sticking in the irregular flow of time and stymied by the positive emotion.

He looks so exhausted, and the sensation of her hair being pushed back from her face makes her realize how clammy her skin is. Some part of her also realizes, in these observations, that they need to get out of here--isn't he worried about that? Her hand makes a fist in his shirt as she tries to parse this sudden question.] Um...

[What did the pamphlet say? She has to choose her words carefully--every one is still a struggle.] ...justice...and righteousness. Like... [The corner of her mouth quirks up a little.] Protectors.

[Yeah, she decides with a note of warm affection. That's him.]

[protegge]

[The beauty of his Stands — as ignorant of their own nature as they are in this moment — is that they extend and expand upon his natural skills. His gift of precision, of focus; of split focus, especially, in times of crisis. That ability to go calm, to dissect the situation, to compartmentalize his fear and anger and confusion. Some of them take action. Some keep watch. Some (always Cinque and Tre, with their tiny feet halfway logged in the bad luck that is the forbidden number) struggle with emotion. It's Tre who's gone to look, chomping at the bit to fight something; Cinque who stays, who drifts close to Sayori and rests on top of her bow, fretfully patting her hair down.]

[It's Mista who smiles at her, a tiny quirk of his lips that's a far cry from his usual broad grin, but a pretty good mirror of her own expression.]

Yep. You got it.

[And with that — broken arm and all — he shifts his grip under her, gets his weight under him, and lifts her in a princess hold with a slight grunt of pain, nothing more.]

Hope you don't mind if I talk while we get moving— [Because she needs her wounds tended to. Because this place is going to close up around them again if he doesn't get the fuck out. Because those monsters are no joke, and he's well aware that if he hesitates or gets too angry, he's going to start generating them too.]

[But it's fine. He can walk and talk, supporting most of her weight with his good arm. Hell, he's hurt worse than this. So he moves towards the hallway with confidence, holding her secure against his chest.]

You heard of a Paladin's Oath?

[hxppythxughts]

[She feels something on her head that isn't Mista's hand--she knows it's not his hand because suddenly he's lifting her, and her eyes widen with alarm, and she doesn't have to say out loud that he shouldn't be lifting her up like this when he's hurt! But she's not in much of a state to argue. She just does her part by trying not to wiggle around too much so as not to agitate his injuries. From the corner of her eye, she sees motion--a skittering shadow, and Mista's Stands.

(That must be what's on her head. They're awfully cute.)

She presses her lips together and focuses on his words instead of the knowledge of the imminent aberrations or the stinging pain in her throat and neck. As her focus narrows, the clarity of the clubroom sharpens, making it easier to see the path to the hall. The music plays on, ethereal, but skipping and distorting when Sayori's mind drifts to the negative.

Again, she tries to reference the newbie pamphlet, but she has to admit she didn't retain all the details of the other classes' capabilities. She remembers it vaguely.] It's magic you can do, right?

[protegge]

Mm-hmm.

[Nodding, chin dipping to bump against the top of her head, he keeps moving forward because that's all he can do. Out into the hallway, quick and efficient, walking fast but never running.]

[Preserving his energy for a final sprint, just in case.]

[He remembers Fugo fussing over gutshot, stapling his skin closed over a wound they both knew required medical attention that there was no time to get. Thinks, not for the first time, that if not for Giorno learning how to heal in the nick of time, it would've gone septic and he'd have died slow and ugly. Instead he's got flesh made of bullets and nine lives, somehow. He doesn't think this is the last one, but you never know.]

[He could run with this girl in his arms and a punctured lung. He's not afraid of that. He can think about the people he hasn't managed to save all he wants, but in the moment of action there's no such thing as failure. It simply doesn't exist as a possibility.]

It's a way of binding myself to someone else. Somebody I want to protect and who— [Maybe not for everyone. But for him.] —gives me something to believe in. Something to fight for.

It's yours. If you want it.

[Just like that.]

[hxppythxughts]

[Despite herself, as they walk, Sayori's eyes are drawn to the shadows, creatures stuck in the skipping flow of time, advancing and then reversing, advancing and reversing.

Their progression through the hallway is affected too, back and forth, the music skipping all the way as her emotional state fluctuates, but they do appear to be moving. It would be nice to be carried like this if she weren't so worried about Mista's injuries--

Her heart catches in her throat, her eyes drawn away from the beasts back to his face. The hallway glitches. It was easy to read when he said she was strong, and it's easy to read now, in the vulnerable widening of her eyes: she doesn't deserve that. Within a few quick blinks her eyes well with tears, and she laughs, grainy and cracking. She thinks about Bakugo and Deku--Deku dying for Bakugo and Sayori thinking how awful, how horrible, how she couldn't live with herself if someone did that for her.

But she remembers something else, too. Something that did and didn't happen, in her code but not in her head. Her own anguished cries as she offered her heart to someone, someone who gave her a reason to live, someone who gave her something to believe in--and they said no.

If Mista believes in her, she has to cherish that feeling. She can't cast it aside--she can't do that to someone she loves. She'll protect it, and treasure it, and...and maybe someday, she can believe it too.

She sniffles, tears trickling down her cheeks, and laughs again, raw and vulnerable, but...joyful.] Okay.

But...remember you said you'd be careful. Okay?

[protegge]

[The way Mista is . . . well, his heart wouldn't break. If she said no, he'd understand. That same understanding months and months ago in Vista Virs that upset Maya so much: the idea that, well, that's fair. He's only himself, no one else. No one incredible or superhuman, no one with genius ideas or incredible ambition. No one who lights up the room or anything like that. He'd understand if he wasn't good enough. Not because he hates himself — he doesn't — it's just that he knows he's only Mista, nothing extraordinary.]

[He offers himself without expecting anything in return. That's how he's always been: clumsy and earnest, kind of an asshole sometimes but most of the time not on purpose. With the people who need him, he's as gentle as big calloused hands know how to be. He'd carry her around just like this as much as she wanted. Will, later. Some other time, when they're not here.]

[For now, he catches her crying out of the corner of his eye; catches her laugh, glances down at her, a look of concern more profound than anything he's shown so far. But she's laughing again and it sounds like it hurts but it sounds like it feels good, too, and . . . that's just feelings, isn't it. They're never straightforward when they're important.]

[Okay, she says, and some of the tension leaves the set of his jaw as he quirks a tentative smile down at her.]

I will. Promise.

[Her and Maya. They both made him promise. And . . . that's part of it, isn't it? Part of all of this. He needs someone to remind him. Someone to guide him and insist that his survival, his well-being, his happiness matters. That selflessness isn't all he can do. That maybe he's not as simple as he thinks he is.]

[Nobody taught him how to do this. It wasn't in the handbook, and even if it was, at the time he discarded it. The idea of swearing himself to anyone but Giorno back then made him feel sick, like admitting everything about the Hunger was true. But there's only so long stubbornness can hold out. And there are people who need him here.]

[Nobody taught him how to do this, but he's always had his own way of doing things anyway. So he does what he knows: with a slightly-pained grunt, holds her closer against his chest with his good arm and uses the bad one to lift her hand to his lips, kiss her knuckles, put her hand back against her stomach all in one smooth motion.]

[Love and loyalty. That's the Oath: just like that. Getting a better grip on her, he coughs lightly as the recognition of Sayori's throat injuries hits him, a ghost of sensation without any real pain. It . . . feels good, in a way. Feels natural, just like it did with Maya. Like they're meant to be connected in this way. But maybe he'd think that about anyone important enough for him to Oath.]

[hxppythxughts]

[Maybe he feels like he's nothing special, but Sayori still tells people of his genius idea when she spreads the love for Supercookie. She saved her demonstrative drawings from Maru because he said he liked them. She still remembers every step of the dance he taught her on the helltrain. Sometimes it's the little lights--the ordinary things--that glow the brightest.

But even if that weren't the case, he came to check on her after her first mission when everything seemed very dark. He lit up the room just to cheer her up when they came across the victims of the basilisk. He's extraordinary in Sayori's heart.

So she knows she made the right choice when she sees the subtle relaxation of his features. She'd never forgive herself if she did something to make him think he wasn't good enough.

The hallway is longer than Sayori remembers it being. Literally. And around the corner is only the creeping black void of unfilled setting details. As he takes her hand, there's the distant sound of a heartbeat--Sayori's heartbeat--and it grows louder, faster, more frantic as her brain tries to process this moment, happening so quickly but feeling so slow as she's perceiving it. She already feels feverish from the physical and emotional stress of earlier, and her face was already flushed for similar reasons, but this is--

The only reason she doesn't make a noise as he kisses her hand is because her voice is still thin and she's completely cut off from the high register that would produce an eep. Her eyes are wide, and she laughs again as he releases her hand; the knot of conflicted emotions within it has changed, and it sounds as harried as her racing heart, which is nearly thunderous in the pulsing hallway around them. Her speech, previously deliberate, is inadvertent this time.] Oh my gosh.

[Though it may be complicated, whatever is inside of her begins to dissolve the monsters. They reach melting limbs out, but their forms are too uncertain to manipulate. She becomes aware of the pain in Mista's arm and his rib, vestigial like an ache in a limb that she's lost, and she--she's feeling too many things. Everything is so awful, and she knows things now that she probably never should have known, but suddenly Mista is like the sun, so bright and warm it's impossible to ignore. She speaks again without thinking, pitchy and flustered, and laughs at the words as they come out of her own mouth.] That was so knightly.

[She kisses the tip of her finger and delicately taps the tip of Mista's nose.

And the projection breaks, everything dissolving away into a void--white this time, and too bright, and strangely loud in a low and resonating way. It sears the eyes and assaults the eardrum, growing brighter and crescendoing until---


THE END




It's the inside of Yggdrasil.

They've left Event Square.]

[protegge]

[It takes him too long, really, to recognize that it's her heartbeat he's hearing. He conflates it with his own, for reasons that will only make sense in retrospect. Because he's worried about her. Because he's focused on her. Because being close to her, taking care of her, protecting her — just knowing her. It's important to him.]

[She's important to him.]

[It isn't until he lifts his eyes to her face again that he recognizes what he's hearing, at the same time as he recognizes what he's seeing: Sayori flushed and wide-eyed, startled, and he thinks for a second, Bad? Did I do bad? before the sound of her laugh changes. That . . .]

[It doesn't sound bad. Doesn't look bad, he thinks, as his Stands send him information; even with him refusing to look away from Sayori's face, he's aware that the monsters are fading away, dripping into nothingness. He's aware of the heat in Sayori's cheeks, the physical sensation creeping over his own even as he feels his own face well and truly heating up, although which came first? And is it a sympathetic reaction, or—]

[Her voice comes through, soft and squeaky. Knightly, she says, like he's done something spectacular, and he's — is it his heartbeat or hers? Is it both? Whoever's it is, it's too fast, and his ribcage is aching from more than the break.]

[And she kisses her finger, just like before, and taps his nose. The sound of the sun. Her in his arms. And it's over.]

[It's over.]

[Just the two of them there, looking at each other, bright red and shell-shocked. The hallway is gone. The projection is over. And he should do something now, he thinks, but with the immediate crisis past he's come to the abrupt and alarming realization that he's holding Sayori in his arms and she just did the thing. The nose thing.]

[Mista.exe has crashed.]

[hxppythxughts]

[Remember to back up Mista's character file!

She barely even registers the strange iridescent rot of Wonderland around them. In fact, the only thing she really notices about their surroundings is how quiet it is now. No static, no distortion, no music or breathing or heartbeats--

No, wait, there is some breathing and heartbeating. Hers? Obviously hers, right? She can feel her heart in her chest like the quick wings of a hummingbird, and she finds the space to be a little embarrassed that Mista could hear it so loudly as they were leaving. It's so intense it's like she's flustering for two.

Wait. As they were leaving. They... They left. They left! Her shoulders slump in his grasp with some relief, and she lets out a breath that's almost a laugh, somewhat disbelieving. It calms her racing pulse, just a little, but her face still feels awfully hot, and her knuckles burn where she remembers the touch of his lips.] We did it!

[She rolls her shoulder a little, the side where she can feel the presence of Mista's injury. Finally, she breaks from his gaze, but only for a moment--only to look down as her opposite hand rubs over her forearm, marveling at her new awareness. Even though she's more than used to magic by now, she's never had this kind of connection before, and it's... Well, she's worried about his injuries. But somehow, this expansion of her senses is comforting.

Slowly, her hand finds its way up past her torn neck ruff, and stops short of touching the scratches dug deep into her skin.

She can't hope to untangle everything in her mind right now, but she's sure of one thing as she looks back up to Mista with an unusually subdued smile. (Is he blushing? Is that her fault?)] This'd be a lot nicer if we weren't here. [She should probably stop talking, for a few good reasons, pertaining to her injuries and otherwise. She doesn't.] But it's still nice.

[protegge]

[Funny how there's so many different types of laughs, and Sayori's run the gamut in just these last few minutes. Self-deprecating, bittersweet, flustered, relieved . . . And Mista laughs too now, awkward and clumsy but quiet enough that it's just for her, so if he's gonna be embarrassed it's only with Sayori. Which is fine.]

We did it. [He . . . wants to hug her, but then he realizes he's already kind of doing that. Wants, absurdly, to press his forehead to hers and close his eyes and just relish in her presence, in the fact that she's breathing; but his torso won't bend that way without complaint right now, and anyway it'd be weird, he thinks. He's pretty sure.]

[Instead, he corrects himself.] You did it, mostly.

[Knightly or not, it was Sayori's nightmare. She's the one who had to wake up from it. If he helped . . . then he's happy. He's just happy, that's all.]

[Belatedly, he recognizes his own pain, now that the adrenaline has begun to pass. Ducking his head to poorly hide a wince of discomfort, he glances around for somewhere to sit and catches on a whorl of root jutting up from the ground. Good enough. He moves that way and crouches to set Sayori carefully against the tree.]

It's nice, [he agrees, reluctantly pulling his arms away only to kneel in front of her and push her hair back from her face, all muted fussiness. Cinque rubs its face against her hair, content and relieved, and Mista tries to shoo it with absolutely zero success.] Get out — Jesus, sorry — I can carry you again later, if you want. When we're out of here.

[If his ears go red at the suggestion, that's coincidence, probably.]

Okay if I clean you up a little bit?

[hxppythxughts]

[Even if she weren't laser focused on him right now, the Oath would have alerted her to his pain. Nice as it may be, she feels better when he sets her down and she knows she isn't agitating anything. And it's not like he's gone far--his hand in her hair also feels nice, though once again she spares a bit of embarrassment for how grimy it must be right now.

At least Cinque doesn't mind. She lifts a hand to gently brush a knuckle against the side of its pointy little head with affection, more endeared by its actions than anything. Her smile takes on just a shine of satisfaction.] Once you're all fixed, yeah.

[She'd fix him herself, if she could. A protective part of her wants to open up her journal and try anyway, even though she's sure someone would have healed him already if it were at all possible. What kind of a rule is "no healing in Wonderland," anyway?

She lowers her hand to her neck ruff self-consciously after a moment. There's obvious hesitation as she considers what cleaning entails, which almost definitely involves touching her neck. Cold dread settles in her stomach, but the hesitation passes and she tugs off what remains of the loose ruff, implicit permission for him to do as he's asking. The injuries from the hanging itself are remnants, more like a memory of an injury, but the scratches are very real.] Ahaha, I'm-- [Her voice shakes, and takes on a thick quality as she tries to swallow down the heavy subtext. No processing in Wonderland, either. Not if you don't want monsters.] --I'm kind of a mess, huh?

[protegge]

[Well, if Cinque was planning to listen to Mista (it was not), it certainly won't after getting that encouraging headpat. Mista rolls his eyes at it and just choosing to ignore it.]

[Sayori needs his attention more, anyway. Because yeah, everything still does very much suck. This sucks. This is awful. He can't even imagine how awful Sayori must be feeling right now, physically and emotionally. What he can do are practical things. Get her to safety.]

[He doesn't recognize the other things he's doing for her, but they come naturally, most of them.]

[It helps to feel the hurt of those scratches, funnily enough. Makes it easier to remember to treat them gently. Slinging his pack off his back, he dumps it on the ground and digs through it for his water skin and a clean pack of gauze. Pour one on the other . . . It's better than a restaurant's nasty men's room as far as first aid goes, he'll take it.]

Gonna sting a little, [he murmurs, ducking his head to dab lightly at her throat; winces because it does, even if distantly, and mumbles an apology, too. The gauze comes away bloodier with each dab, but the more he looks at it the more he thinks they're not that deep. If she keeps them clean, she should be okay.]

[Glancing up at her, he quirks a brow.] I mean, I've seen worse. You still got all your legs and stuff. You know one time I got turned into an old guy? I was a hot old guy, but that was still way worse to look at than a couple scratches.

[hxppythxughts]

[To accomodate his efforts, she lifts her chin up and tilts her head back a little (trying not to disturb Cinque too much as she does.) She trusts Mista deeply, and she knows that there's no threat in his motions, but the revulsion as the gauze touches her neck is instinctual. Especially given how much more acutely she can feel the pain now that there's no crisis or sensory overload muddling everything.

She grips the knot of root beneath her until her knuckles are white and just takes a deep breath. There's a slight nervous tremble in her body that she tries to quell. Over and over like a mantra, she tells herself: it's just Mista. It's not a rope. It's just Mista.

But, cleverer than he gives himself credit for, he has the good sense to distract her. She can't stop a snort of laughter at his claim, interrupting the meditative orbit of her fear around a downward spiral. Her laughter carries her response.] Aw, if you stayed super hot it probably wasn't that bad.

[She could have thought about those words that she said before, during, or after the process of saying them. She had every opportunity to and she didn't.

But if she stops to think too much, the distraction breaks and everything might catch up to her, so that's just how it's going to have to be for now!]

[protegge]

[frantically backs up game files]

[The noise he makes is kind of. Well, a strangled cough might be the best way to describe it. His brows draw together as his face grows bright red, again. Stupid face. Even in the face of the sting he feels through the connection, it won't quit. It's not even remotely quelled. It just keeps being red.]

[There's a moment when he's about to continue on with the story, on autopilot, before he recognizes that Yeah, and then I got shot in the head a bunch of times, no idea how I got out of that one is probably a bad choice of topics for this particular interaction. Briefly tongue-tied, he dumps a little more water on the cloth and goes back to dabbing. Dab, dab. Dab.]

[Why is it so much easier to call oneself hot than to be told one is hot by a cute girl. This is hell. Anyway, words eventually—]

One time my friend got his tongue bitten off for a little while. That was definitely worse.

[Nailed . . . it.]

[hxppythxughts]

[The noise he makes in response tells Sayori that maybe she just said something goofy, but she doesn't start worrying until the quiet stretches on. She becomes increasingly more aware of the pain, the clamminess of her hands as they clutch at the root of the tree...]

Ow. [And it's not a response to the sting of him cleaning her wounds, but the addition to the story--soft and sympathetic, not pained in and of itself.] Yeah, that'd be way worse.

[There's a beat while she absorbs the rest of that, and then:] "A little while?"

[Did...did it grow back???]

[protegge]

Huh?

[That's such a non-sequitor question to him, because he's used to having a near-omnipotent healer on his team. Which. Honestly, has been one of the greatest adjustments of living in Faerun. He really misses that instaheal, painful as it was.]

Oh. Yeah, my other friend grew it back.

[No big deal.]

Without him I think we'd all be missing some body parts. But Narancia would fuckin' hate to not be able to talk, he talks more than I do.

[Which is saying something. Pulling back with the gauze, he eyes Sayori's wounds for a moment before nodding in satisfaction.]

I think you're pretty good there. It'd be a good idea to cover it so nothing gets in the wounds, but. [He glances up to meet her eyes. It's her decision, ultimately. If she can handle it or not.]