purg_darktower

Thu, 16 Jul 2009 03:12:21 GMT

Well, well, well.

So what are my ants willing to do to get their alcohol and cigarettes back?

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 16:19:25 GMT

(This communication seems to come outside the network, not having any particular name attached to it.)

Locked to Xemnas:

We require the alliance of a woman in the city named Mazikeen. I suggest you use all your persuasion on her and have a care. She is a warrior in her own right and would make a dangerous enemy for us. I want her on our side to deal with Lucifer should he stand against us.

How goes your progress on the heart experiment? Might I suggest you start with Eileen Galvin or Henry Townshend? They will soon become thorns in my side.

/locked

---------

Locked to Lucifer:

Despite what you may think, I have kept my side of the bargin, Lucifer. Now I need you to yours. I require a sample of John Constantine's blood. I also need you to meet with Gabriel if you will. After you were kind enough to help me with her, she proved a most eager ally. Such devotion is always welcome. I could have never done it without you. I do suggest you don't push her. She hasn't figured out yet how to use those beneath her, but she will in time. The two of you need to decide who in the city will take care of what.

The pink glass I gave you is to find its way into the hands of Reno. See to it.

/locked

----------

Locked to Ada Wong:

I need you to find a man named Grimmjow and recruit him. I need to know what all it is that the Task Force is doing to find my new agent in the city and how close they are to discovering who it is.

That little orange globe you have will be given to Terra.

/locked

--------------

Locked to Gabriel:

I need you to find a man named Sephiroth and ensure that he does not become a difficulty. He is vastly misled, believing that darker forces that he calls 'Mother' are leading him. Once upon a time, he was a powerful and respected warrior. Evil had reduced him to something maddened and useless. You need to return him to glory, help him along the path once more. He will be a challenge, but one I feel you up to.

/locked

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 07:13:22 GMT

Locked to Lucifer

What is your progress?

/privateLocked to Ada:

Ada Wong.

How are you?

/private

------------

Private to Xemnas

You wished to speak to me?

/private

Fri, 13 Feb 2009 08:36:58 GMT

"You do realize that this is a one time thing."

"Less talking, more stripping."

You get the look for that, and for a second you think you just blew it. He leaves you wondering with that slow reach upwards, until he finally grasps the zipper of his vest and starts dragging it down. The explosion is still a few days away. The skin that's revealed is flawless.

"I could buy you something, you know. These guys might be stupid gangsters, but they've got a nice bank account."

You rest your head back against the chair as you watch him peel the vest off and toss it aside. He catches the finger of a leather glove between his teeth and pulls it off next. He's enjoying this more than he'll admit.

"This is enough." You speak again after a moment. You have no desire for anything that came from the man in the white suit. You don't like anything about him, but especially not the way he has a woman on each arm and both eyes on black leather.

"It's always been more than enough." He smirks and comes over to you while one hand loosens the laces at the front of his pants. They hang low on his hips and open enough for you to see that, in typical fashion, he's not wearing anything under them. "You don't really expect me to do all the work, do you." It's not a question. It's a cue.

You smirk and lean forward, linking your arms loosely around his midsection and drawing him in. His flesh is warm and clean, so it's no wonder that your mouth is drawn to it. The muscles under his skin tighten as your lips and tongue pass over, and there's a stirring under black leather. You lean forward even more, sliding out of the chair and forcing him down onto the floor.

"It's not that far from the bed, you know. This is gonna make my back sore tomorrow." You can tell he's not really complaining. He's clawing at your clothes while you're tugging the last article of his off. The next few minutes are devoted to kisses, touches and bites to all the right spots, all the ones that make him want you most. It's frenzied at first, but you always find that pace, the one that gives you both what you want before pushing you over the edge.

"Tell me how much you like it." The words come out thick, because you're not at your most eloquent when he's wrapped around you like this. "Tell me how no one else could make you feel this good." He looks up at you through half-lidded eyes, trying to comprehend why you picked this moment of all times to want to talk.

"Wha-don't stop."

"Won't. Tell me."

And he does. He says anything that you want him to say, and you do anything he wants you to do. And it's better than you ever remember it being. One hand tug fibers of the plush carpet while the other tangles in your hair. You're not sure which he'll pull out first, and you don't care. Your breath catches when he arches his body against you and the next few seconds bring you as close to heaven as you're ever going to get.

Heaven is exhausting. You just lay on the floor for awhile, limbs shiny with sweat and quickly cooling. With the first shiver, he's ready to move. "Come to bed." The soft groan and the fatigue in his voice lets you know you did well. You kneel, watching him as he flops onto the bed, blonde hair spilling over the pillow. By the count of ten, he's out.

It's with some effort that you manage to get to your own feet. You place your hands on the desk, leaning against it as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Only...you're not really looking at yourself. And it's not just you that's looking back. Mello may not have noticed, but you have. It's your job to know a two-way mirror when you see one.

"Enjoy the show?" You light a cigarette and take a long drag. "I flew a thousand miles just so you could see it. See, I don't care if you think you're a big deal. You're never getting him. So keep torturing yourself. Saves me the trouble." You fall silent when you see him roll towards you in the mirror's reflection. "Matt." You give a single nod in response, put the cigarette out, and crawl into a bed that another man bought for him.

----------------------

"It's only a matter of time," he whispers.

You find yourself in a room full of dead bodies, all of them twisted in various stages of death. A throne sits at the far end, skulls making it up. Upon it sits a figure cloaked in crimson robes. Its head and face are thankfully covered beneath those folds of cloth. Standing there, you can feel the power rolling off it.

"Only you can stop it. Only you can seize the reins and take control. For you good and for theirs. Sick children will refuse medicine that can cure them. It's up to those older and wiser to make sure that they do."

----------------------

The puppy has black fur, a plumed tail, and blue eyes.

It's a fluffy little thing, wriggling and sniffing, yipping excitedly and darting around my feet, tail wagging and tongue lolling. I'd taken it in from the outside a few nights ago, fed it, gave it a bath, walked it, and was training it. It's learning fast - a clever little pup - and by all rights, I should be proud of the progress that it's making.

By all rights.

The fact is that I hate the very sight of it.

I'm holding a glass filled with fire in one hand and stepping through the debris of my life that the puppy has brought in. Oh, it learns fast, but it has bad habits. A grayish-white scarf lies unwound nearby a twisted lyre, and pages of my work lie strewn across the floor, ripped out. A small yellow materia rolls by my feet. A silver bound book sits on a table not too far away, the catch marred with scratch marks from its teeth and claws. There's a wolf outside which howls every night, and the puppy silences then, curling up nose to belly on my lap for sleep, ignoring the cries.

It used to have a collar, the puppy, but when I tried to see the name of the owner, it wriggled from my grip and darted away from me. When I saw it next, the collar was gone. Wriggled out of it, by the looks of things.

It's barking up at me where I'm holding the fire. It doesn't like it when I give anything else attention. It thinks it comes second or third to whatever it is. But the fire was here first, and I have to make sure it still burns. You're not meant to be able to keep fire in a bottle, but I'd been doing so for a long time now.

The puppy growls at my feet and barks, bearing needle-like teeth, blue eyes fixed on the fire. It doesn't have a chance. There was a dirty crow which flew in and tried to take the fire at one time, but I'd caught it and pinned it to the wall. You can still see it, if you look. It took a while to die.

It barks and growls again, starting forward in a run.

The toe of my boot catches it squarely in the chest, and it is knocked to the far wall.

"Sit down," I tell it, firmly, no nonsense, "And shut up."

------------------------

And then you are back at the end of the table. At the other sits the figure in red. Candles cast shadows and light over everything.

"Are you a coward then? Afraid to be the -one- who does what is needed?"

-------------------------

There’s a dark, fading, light, in the garden where you lay your head tonight. Through the darkened hours you stare at the ceiling, thinking of all the things You’d rather be. You needed his support right now. You needed him to be there for you but it was too much. It was just too much for him to handle and you could see that as plain as day. What were you supposed to do? Run away? Throw yourself down a flight of stairs? No.. No you couldn’t do something like that. Life was just too sacred.

You told him today. You were late. Late. You felt sick in the mornings and, well, it was your own fault anyway. You two were careless. It was a risk you shouldn’t have taken, and definitely one you shouldn’t have taken as many times as you did. Scared, you went to see Zelda and she knew immediately, confirming your worst fears to be true. Unbearable pressure sunk onto thin shoulders and you nearly fell over, gasping, eyes stinging. No. No this couldn’t happen. What were you supposed to do?

“I’m pregnant.”

Funny how it sounded more like a curse than a blessing. This wasn’t the place to raise a child. It wouldn’t survive. You wouldn’t survive.

“It’s yours.”

Who else’s would it have been? He falters as you speak, probably expecting some kind of surprise. Boy does he get it. Stubborn hopefulness crumbles as the reality of your words sink in and you can see his heart break.

A sob hitches in your throat and you run across the room, nearly flinging yourself into his unresponsive arms. The tears come. The sobs come. He still isn’t moving and you know his mind is slowly playing with those four little words. You know what he’s thinking.

[How could we keep it safe from all the horrifying things around us at all times? How could we keep it healthy? Would it be able to cope at all? The child of a-
Shit.
Everything would be completely turned upside down. Her brother will come after me. She’ll lose her position. She’ll be miserable. We’d have to dedicate everything in our lives to this baby. Our own would be over, and in this place, that’s a lot considering we fight to conserve that very thing every single day.
I’m not ready. I’m too young. I can’t do it. She can’t do it.]

So maybe you project a few of your own fears too. It’s all the same. You’re both terrified and you can’t stop crying. You feel guilty and horrible and sick. Your head is spinning a million miles an hour and he still hasn’t said anything.

“Alex-” You manage, pleading with him to respond. To move. To look at you at least.
He doesn’t for a long while and when it finally does come, you can tell it isn’t because he wants to. It’s because he has to. You know that he hates to see you cry and you hate crying in front of him but you just can’t help it. Your face goes a funny kind of pale and your cheeks hurt and the tip of your nose gets red. You hate it but you can’t stop the tears from leaking down your cheeks or the air from getting trapped in your chest when you sob into his shirt.

“Don’t cry, Claire,” He pleads softly, choking through his anxiety.

Softly, finally, he raises a hand and brushes a bit of hair from out of your face but the touch lingers. It slowly traces over your cheek, your jaw, your neck, and stays there. Hovering. Stroking. It’s like he’s making sure that you’re real.

“Please. I’m gonna…”

He touches the curve of your neck, fingers coming to rest there.

“I’m gonna fix this. Okay? I’m gonna make it all better.”

He lays his palm on your neck then, too, and begins to curl his fingers gently around it.

“I’m gonna make it all go away.”

Without warning, he tightens his grip into a violent squeeze. You squeal as the air leaves your body and wouldn’t come back in. He twists his position, facing you, wrapping his other hand as tightly around your neck as he can. You try to gasp, but its garbled, sounding more like a wheeze. You don‘t understand what‘s going on. It isn‘t funny but he uses his full weight to push you down against the cushions of the couch, and you go down easily, clawing desperately at his hands, wrists, and arms—so desperately that you start to draw blood. You can’t hear anything past the blood thumping in your ears. You can’t feel anything past the crushing grip around your neck.

“Al-x! Please! St-p! T- baby!”

He doesn’t.

Not once does he look at you. Not once does he think about what he’s doing. Not even when your strength begins to wane. When your body falls limp. It’s like he knows that he’ll give in if he does. That he’ll break down and cry and beg for forgiveness. That he didn’t have a choice. That it was the only way. You know that he’s doing this out of love. That he loves you so much he can’t help himself, and even as your arms finally drop. Even as your last bit of life starts to give up, you know that you love him too.

-------------------

The thing smiles, although you can see it. You feel it.

"If you prefer to wait, to let the evil things come through the door to destroy your lives. If you prefer to let the evil that is already here destroy your lives... then go ahead. Wait and hope for better. Believe in those who will not help you. Have you seen the evils brought to justice yet?'

---------------------

So disconnected. So distant. It is happening to someone else, and that's fine, because you're indifferent. You don't care. You don't give a damn either way, not as you watch from overhead, up near the surface. Omnipotent. Ethereal. Not there.

But you know the players, oh, you do. You know Madara as he looms over the body --my body mine all mine opened up spread open -- on the table, the swirling orange mask hiding all of his face but that lone eye. You know the slope of the body's nose, know the empty sockets where eyes should have stared out of, know the spread chest, skin cut and peeled wide apart, still lungs and the void where your heart should have beat. You know, you know even with Madara's fingers in your head, in the place where your brain is exposed like old ground meat, the slick wet sounds echoing in the room as he slides his touch in deeper, bypassing some places in favor for others.

"Hmm, where is it…?"

There's a moment of that sound, haunting and refusing to be shaken off until his arm stops and fingers pull free. There's a triumphant noise muffled partially by the mask, before he turns to a nearby tray, scooping up two marbles -- not marbles not marbles no you know what they are know who they belong to not his not his but they're yours because you're all bound by blood and name -- and leans over you.

"He would have wanted you to have these." And he laughs, laughs even as he slams them into the sockets, and in the sky, you can feel the burn, feel the pain, feel how much it hurts. It sounds like coins dropping, the rattling almost comically in their holes, but they settle, settle and cry blood, little streams that settle back into your hair, into the shells of your ears.

In that moment, the world is red. Red and pain and it is starting to come alive. What once was so crisp in vision is now foggy, the edges blurred with a blunt thumb, and it gives way to a nausea you're not expecting. Dizzy. Disconnected. Distant, but getting closer.

You hear Madara humming, some happy-go-lucky suicidal piece that was interspersed with droplets of laughter. His back is to your prone body, but you know, you know what he's grabbing even before he turns, turns with that black and withered heart in his bloody hands, somehow flexing, somehow beating, a worn tumor that existed to work. He whispers to the organ, low and quiet, a poison more deadly than any Kabuto had ever known, words of history, words of truth. There is nothing but the mask, but you know the fool was grinning still when he drops that heart in, drops it with a sound like a rock falling into a well, the bouncing tumbles as it strikes the walls, seconds turning before the inevitable splash.

The breath in your ghostly lungs burns, and you choked on hate, hate, your vision still red, red like fire, red like pain, red and hateful and all the world is, all the world can ever be is a place to tear asunder. Destruction. Revenge. They did this. They did this. They did this Madara said so they did this they killed your brother killed your family killed your clan killed your honor killedmurderedslaughteredyouyourpotentialyourhopesyourdreamskilledyouMadarasaidso--

"Kill them all, Sasuke-kun," and his voice isn't muffled any longer, clear as day, clear as night, clear as burning loathing, unbidden. "It is your duty. Your responsibility. Your destiny. Kill them all."

And you're looking out, looking out from the red eyes, feeling with the wrinkled heart, thinking with this rewired brain, and you know…

…you know he's right.

--------------------------------

And they are forced to watch those they love beaten, hurt, burn, killed... whatever they fear the most.

"Maybe this is what you want. Maybe you want those you claim to love hurt beyond belief. Then they will need you, won't they?"

Those they love are with them, crippled... hurt... blinded... deafened... needing them just to survive in this place.

"Sometimes that helps too. It's for their best. No one ever knows how much they need those that love them the most until the worst happens. Such can be done temporarily. For the best."

--------------------------------

Time flows differently in hell. In the space between the seconds that tick away where life is lived are the weeks of the damned. It's been three months since your brother buried you.

But it's been thirty years in hell.

Flesh likewise knows no limits. You didn't expect it to be returned to you here of all places, but it is. Only to have it sliced from you in spaghetti strips. Bitten off in chunks by angular creatures with razor sharp teeth, watching it travel through their transparent bodies and vomited by a second mouth. It hits your body with a sickening wet slap. And somehow it becomes whole, attaching itself to your bones that it can be sliced and bitten and whipped again.

Thirty years of agony. And each morning you're made whole again and pain-free. It's those brief moments that are the most agonizing, because you know what's coming. It will start all over again as surely as the sun will rise where Sam is. But you're not powerless to stop it, and that's the greatest torture of all.

Every day he gives you a choice. Your suffering can end. No more pulling you limb from limb. No more force-feeding of coals that ignite and burn you to a crisp from the inside out. All you have to do is stand up.

And agree to do it to someone else.

For thirty years, you're defiant. You're scared, and hurt, but you're still you. Stick it where the sun don't shine. And so the day begins anew. The demons surround you with their claws and teeth and instruments.

For thirty years. But you're not in hell for thirty years. You're there for forty.

I just couldn't take it anymore.

He takes you off the rack, and puts someone else on it. And you do everything that was done to you. And you're good at it. You enjoy it. Because now you can finally be the one dishing out the pain instead of suffering it. Over the course of the decade, you just get better and better at it. And more creative. The demons who tortured you are in awe.

You were once asked a question that made your blood run cold. When you brought your brother back to life, are you sure that what you brought back is pure Sammy?

You know the answer now. It's impossible to return to who you were. And living with who you now are isn't much easier.

------------------------------

"Wouldn't you like to have some control?" it asks, lurking behind you. "Wouldn't it be good? You know better in the end."

-----------------------------

It is the first round, the first of many, and they lined us up one by one. Everyone's nervous, you can see it in their eyes, their painfully normal eyes, but they won't be that way for long. No big deal, though, all their faces say; we knew what we were getting into when we signed up, when we accepted being accepted. We knew and we're still here.

So, one by one they lead us to a room, conveyer belt of able bodies, and the door shuts after each one. Sometimes there'd be silence; sometimes someone talking but you can't hear the words through the door. Sometimes someone would scream or other doctors would run in, white lab coats a-charging like someone lit a Bunsen burner under their butts, and they'd come out either pale or smiling depending on the outcome.

Mako Poisoning, they call it. Turning you into a vegetable is pretty much the same thing, only it sounds a little less appetizing. They say there's only a one in a thousandth chance of it happening, but there's rumor that they just say that to calm us down, to line us up, to use us. I dunno, I like believing in Shinra, like believing that they want what's best for us, that they'll treat us good under their care.

I'm naïve, Kunsel tells me between conspiracy theories while we drink in our dorm. I am, though; he's not wrong. Maybe it's from growing up in Gongaga rather than in Midgar like him. Doesn't really matter now.

He's standing behind me, another in line, another man waiting for his destiny. His smile's nervous, and I laugh a little, promising him that if we make it out of this with our asses in line, I won't make him hold him to that bet he lost that called for him to go running around the streets of Sector 7 in just his underwear. He says he didn't lose the bet, that I just cheated.

I remind him that heroes don't cheat, and I can see him rolling his eyes under that helmet, his hands shoving me up to be the next person in line.

You'll be okay.

It's not me I'm worried about Zack. Go on. It's your turn.

My turn, and it's foreboding. Something isn't right, but I laugh it off and walk on through the door. The white coats close it behind me, but I swear I glimpse--

Was that Tifa? Cloud? Aerith? But that's not right, they weren't here…not now.

They push me into a high-backed leather chair, the kind you find in the dentist office, and there's a light in my eyes, brighter than the sun, brighter than Ultima on a good day. It's only when Sephiroth, General Sephiroth in a pristine white coat, leans over me that I can see the others, Angeal and Genesis. The syringe, glowing green with Mako and a pinch of alien fun, leans in dangerously close to my arm as Genesis ties off the rubber tubing just above the juncture of my elbow with a little snap.

And suddenly I don't feel much like a hero.

I start to sit up, I'm panting, but I don't care; I want out of here, I want to get away, something bad's going to happen if I keep this up, something bad, something I can't take back, something that's final, and I think I'm saying this, think I'm saying all of this because Genesis is laughing at me and calling me a coward. I don't care, I don't, but my pride and honor withers when all I want to do is tell him that if this happens, I'm going to die. I'm going to die, don't they see?

The brightest star burns out the fastest my mother told me when my five year old cousin was killed a farming accident. She was crying then, holding me when I was eight and didn't understand how kids could be eaten by tractors. Funny that it was Kunsel yelling it through the door now, earnest and bold, a belief, a promise of honor. I stopped fighting, stopped trying to lean up, trying to get away, at least for a minute.

But a minute was long enough for Angeal's fingers to get in my hair, to stroke it, to reach behind my ear and scratch it. There's a twitch in my leg, a shaking of it, but he's laying me back against the back of the chair, the whisper of leather as I sink down. "You're going to make me proud, pup," he whispers in a way that makes me happy and breaks my heart at the same time, and suddenly the needle is in, it's in, and it's too late, it's begun, the domino falls.

Green. The world is green and I'm drowning. I can hear the world, the millions of people that have died, that have lived and I forget myself in the mix. I forget my name, forget my purpose, forget SOLDIER and Shirna and being a hero. I forget fear, forget yearning, forget bravery.

I forget to breathe.

I'm the green, not in it, and it's everywhere and inside me, the river, the Life, and I'm part of it, as it's part of me.

Borrowed time.

It's Sephiroth speaking this time, whispering in my ear with his voice and Jenova's, and it's Angeal's fingers at my ears bringing me back, dragging me out of the green, dragging out of the peace. Genesis and Sephiroth are smiling, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, leaving Angeal and I under that halogen light, and I know, know in that moment that those two in the dark are going to outlive me, outlive both of us, that they'll see our deaths.

Zack!

It's Spike yelling this time, Cloud, and I smile as I slide away from the chair. It's okay. It's okay, because I'll hit the road like any good relay race. Angeal passes the rod to me, and I hand it to Cloud. It'll be okay.

It'll be as it has to be, I think as I open the door and let the next come in.

---------------------------

"I can cure all ills. I can prevent any disease. I can make you as pure as you were before. Mental illness, physical illness... anything. All you have to do is take my hand and swear to me."

---------------------------

You’re awash in green agony.

Green: colour of safety/go/poison/wrong/Sephiroth’s eyes [Sephiroth]/mako (poisoned). Agony: intense physical pain or mental anguish/the sting of a malboro/the stab of the Soul Reaver/Geostigma [Sephiroth]/often joked to be felt in a surgery/dental practise/laboratory.

Your eyes crack open, and, blearily, you look up. A harsh light makes you want to close them, but you’re not sure if you could summon the willpower to open them again if you did. The pain is short-lived, for something moves into your field of vision, blotting it out, though it lingers in your eyes, a criss-cross of veined red and bruised purple-black.

Pers… persis… persistence of vision: When an imprint remains on the back of the retina/A blast from a Flare materia/An overhead light in a surgery/dental practise/laboratory.

Your nose is assaulted with a plethora of smells. Each one overpowers your heightened sense and battles through your cotton-wool awareness. You smell ammonia, stale coffee and the distinct yet persistent stench of old blood and harsh chemicals.

Ammonia: a colourless gas with a pungent odour that is highly soluble in water (NH3)/a solution mixed in water as a household cleaner widely manufactured/persistent smell in a surgery/dental practise/laboratory. Blood: the red fluid that is pumped into the heart and circulates around the bodies of humans and other vertebrates/valuable/life/infected with JENOVA cells [Sephiroth]/spilled all too easily/cleaned away carefully and precisely in a surgery/dental practise/laboratory.

Whatever has blotted out the harsh light moves before you, and you become aware that you are looking up at a face through half-closed eyes. A curl of blonde hair has escaped the confines of the hygienic tie and glimmers in the light. Slowly, it turns black, lank, straight, and greasy, and the pretty woman’s face you look at becomes a haggard old man’s.

Alexia: Carrier of the T-Veronica Virus/Suspended animation/giggled as she took your shirt off/stronger than Wesker. Hojo: A professor in Shin-Ra’s employ/Head of the Science Department/Responsible for the prolonging of the JENOVA Project [Sephiroth]/Second-rate scientist/Spiderlike fingers inching down to inject you with mako (poisoned)/one who should have been atoning in Vincent’s stead.

Light glimmers on Hojo’s glasses as his fingers spider along your chest. The pretty woman catches a breath, but puts girlish thoughts away as she gets on with her work. The cold touch of the clean blade does not come across too painfully. The cut is clinical and precise; more than you could have hoped for really. It starts as a straight line from collarbone to sternum, and then branches into an upside-down ‘Y’. The blade is put to the side and the saw picked up. It drags down your ribcage and you open like a purse. It’s hard to be more naked than this.

Agony: intense physical pain or mental anguish/the sting of a malboro/the stab of the Soul Reaver/Geostigma [Sephiroth]/often joked to be felt in a surgery/dental practise/laboratory. Naked: Without the usual covering or protection/Openly displayed or expressed and often threatening or disturbing/Stripped down to the bone/Unarmed and defenceless.

You’ve been drugged, but it leaves your system as quickly as it entered it. Gradually the pain becomes stronger and you let out a low moan of distress. The pretty woman looks up and frowns slightly: she was taking notes. At the same time, you hear Hojo tut and tap another sentence onto a computer screen. Beside him and to the left, you see two tanks. One is empty; the other is filled with green fluid. Someone rests inside it, and you recognise the black hair.

“Zaaaahhh…”

Hojo turns around fully then.

“Dear, dear,” he says, and his voice is overlaid with the murmuring of the pretty woman’s, “This one is awake.”

Black: The absence of colour/despair/loss/his materia [Sephiroth].

---------------------------------

Silence falls for awhile as he lifts a hand and waves to the food and drink. Against your will, you find yourself eating everything you can lay hands on. All your favourites, all of them perfect. Everything. You eat until you are full, feeling content and warm for the first time since you arrived. The drink is the same. Liquor if you wish it, if not, whatever you like.

Fri, 16 Jan 2009 17:57:20 GMT

The Dark Tower stands near the shore, a mile out at the most. Clouds or fog curl around it, hiding some levels behind them. The sun's light casts strange colours around it, sometimes red or purple and other times pink and orange. The clouds shift, seeming far too much like that trapped within glass orbs.

The ocean has a reddish cast to it, smelling like roses for short periods of the day and rancid like a sun-bloated rotting corpse at others. During the few good times, rose petals will wash up on the beach. The lobstrosities seem particularly aggressive today, going so far as to make it up to the path that winds around the beach in search of something to tear apart with their claws.

If one studies the Dark Tower itself, they can see that there are balconies on it. On one, a figure wrapped in crimson stands. Although his or her face is covered by the hood it wears, there's a feeling of sick fear that will strike them, no matter who it is. The more 'good' a person is, the worse it will get, right up to and including physical illness for an hour or so. Instruments will be unable to be played today, and singing will come out sounding hoarse and flat.

Although there is no fog within the city today, everything seems to still, as if the world were holding its breath and waiting for something. At nightfall, the direwolves will begin their chorus of howls again, going for a full half-hour before stopping.

Thu, 03 Apr 2008 16:31:59 GMT

There was only one person in all of Purgatorium that would have recognized the laughter that came flowing from each of the terminals throughout the city. The voice that shouted out from them was of a madman long gone.

"You think you won? This isn't over! I'm just getting started again. You didn't think I could follow you, did you?"

All is quiet for about half a minute before the sinister voice speaks again.

"All I need is a new Jowy. I see a little blonde that might just do."

With that, it falls silent.

((Just fyi, he will not answer, of course. Think of it as a glitch in the system. Maybe. Probably. I wouldn't be that evil, right?))

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 15:25:43 GMT

((These posts will be put up all over town, roughly thirty in all. They look as if they were made at Kinko's on a poor copier. The picture of the cat or dog on each is grainy, barely recognizable. The names are different on each one. If you want one found for your char, feel free to. The characters named will be those that differ from reality or shape reality such as psychics, telepaths, Key Blade Masters, magic users, clearly recognizable demons (such as Karasu, Piiko, Kuronue, Nana, Grimmjow) and the like. The fur colour will be their hair colour and eye colour is there as well. There will be ones for Schuldig, Yue, Bast, Zexion, Samantha, Kuronue, Karasu, Giovanni, Aaron, Heine, Lulu, and Wesker so far. Feel free to add a tag below if your char will appear on these! I'm just using Yue as an example here. Should someone actually go look around town and find 745 Highgate, it stinks to high heaven of rat and will have a Low Man lurking around who will flee quickly. REMEMBER - this is entirely optional. Should you not wish your char listed, they will not be.))

-------------------------------

HAVE YOU SEEN YUE!

He is an OLD CAT, but WE LOVE HIM!

YUE has WHITE FUR and PURPLE eyes!

He is FRIENDLY!

Will eat scraps from your hand!

We will pay a VERY LARGE REWARD!

($ $ $ $ $)

IF YOU HAVE SEEN YUE!

CALL HOusitonic 5-8337!

(or)

BRING YUE to 745 Highgate Avenue!

Home of the SAGAMORE FAMILY!

OOC Info

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 19:32:43 GMT

(A black and white tuxedo cat will be found dead outside Shu-Ra this morning. As in dead dead. Not coming back dead. There isn't a mark on it. It looks like it just fell over and died for no reason at all. On the sidewalk outside of Kuronue's home there will be a hopscotch grid drawn in blue chalk with a comet, star, and moon next to it done in white chalk. Pinned upside down to the side of Sunde near the door is a card advertising a used car for sale.)

Wed, 19 Mar 2008 07:06:00 GMT

Who: The Stranger and Anyone in Purg
When: Late tonight
Where: Their beds and the Dreamscape/Dark Tower
Rating: PG-13 for gore/violence
Warnings: Gore, Violence, mind-screwing
Summary: A dream or nightmare comes to Purgatorium, sweeping over those who live there.

(Whether or not your character has this dream is entirely up to you. This is not a must thing. Like Voice, any interaction is entirely voluntary. No one has to do this. Feel free to post your characters reaction if you want, such as them waking up after the dream. During the dream, they cannot talk or act on their own besides looking around. In the dream, they will not see the other characters, only their little guide, such as Elena wouldn't know that Reno is having the same dream. If you want to post them waking up in comments, go for it! Any reaction is a good reaction! Thanks!)

"You..."

The voice was a whisper, barely there.

Everything was blurred then, all voices other than the one calling them becoming distant and tinny like badly received radio signals. The ground fell out from under their feet, falling down and yet it felt up at the same time, direction itself losing meaning. Their minds felt as if they might snap under the paradox of it all, a world within another and another and another.

Pain flared through their knees when they fell, dust swirling up and into their lungs in a foul and stale cloud. Instead of wherever they had been, they found themselves crouched in a dark hallway. Cracks ran through the water damaged and fire scorched hallway, chunks of the ceiling hanging by the smallest margin, looking ready to come down on them at any moment. Bare pipes were exposed beneath that, the metal rusted with water dripping out in a few places. The tile beneath their feet was broken up in places, a thin layer of a greasy and stinking ash overlaying it.

"You're not dead. If that's what you're wondering."

Sitting on a broken box that age-yellowed patient charts spilled out of was a small man, barely breaking five feet tall. Tangled white hair that had dust and ash caught in it hung around the man's face. When the little man looked up, most may have wished he hadn't. A cruel and deep cut went completely across the stranger's forehead, going back into his hair. Ugly, coarse black thread had been crudely stitched in an 'x' pattern over the slash to keep it closed, the edges shoved clumsily together. Faded blue eyes meet their own, set back in blackened hollows in the man's too thin face. The bones beneath were just a tad shy of bursting through the thin, sickly pale skin it seemed. His grey shapeless clothing hung on him, bringing to mind hospital scrubs.

"I am dead though if that's what else you're wondering."

The man slid off the box, a pair of dusty grey canvas shoes on his feet. "Who I am is not important. I'm just someone. What is important is that they're coming close again, the two or thousands. The Tower is trembling and ka... ka will have its way."

Whatever response they may have tried to make through their locked throat was ignored. He knew well enough.

The little man grinned, his cyanotic blue lips curving to show small white teeth in black gums beneath. "Ka like the wind."

The dead man smiled, full of sadness as he reached out to take their hands, holding to the sleeves of their nightgowns or sleep shirts. "The Beams are being laid and the low men are here already. Eternity in a grain of sand. Sora or the Heartless would say that the door is opening."

The dead man's cold fingers touched on their wrists, caressing where their pulse beat. The pads of his fingers touched lightly on the edge of their sleeves, clinging to material. "The Crimson King is on the other side. The Tower. He's trying to bring it down, seeking allies."

A sensation began to creep over them, invasive and spying. He turned away, pushing them backwards. For a moment, they could see a soaring black tower, outlined in an eternally setting sun. It seemed to soar into the skies forever, a field of roses around it. The next instant, they are awake. When they awake, they were in their beds or wherever they had fallen asleep. On their sleeves, where the stranger had touched the material, were burnt shadows of his fingers.

(Tomorrow, there will be a blue kite tail hanging the front of Shu-Ra. Not the whole kite, merely the tail. In front of Elena's house will be a hopscotch grid in purple chalk, much like a child might draw. On one side of it is a star, a comet on the other, both done in yellow chalk.)