No. There is plenty of chance of beating him. He has a limited amount of HP, and every use of his power lowers them. So a Von neuman Dragon could wear him down eventually.Odysseus2099 said:
An Imago of Rust and Crimson (Worm crossover)
- Thread starter EarthScorpion
- Start date
No, I mean just because he is an archmage. Archmages are pretty much impossible to defeat for mortals.
OctarineShrike
Avatar of Mandos
That's Mage: The Ascension.DeAnno said:
TheLastOne
Person of impeccable tastes (for destruction)
Awakening is Gnostic, you're invoking truth that the world abhors, not changing reality via your enlightened conviction.DeAnno said:
1.05
An Imago of Rust and Crimson
Chapter 1.05
The horizon ahead was blood red, meeting iron-grey clouds above. The car's engine droned meaninglessly as I stared out the window, watching the illuminated signs flash by. McDonalds, Walmart, QuikSave, Belco, Burger King, Taco Bell. The outskirts of Brockton Bay was a mess of out-of-town shops, fast food, fuel pumps and industrial estates. They were relatively lively along the freeway, but I knew the side roads were packed with abandoned warehouses and closed stores. Most of the meth in the city apparently came from around that post-industrial hellhole. Not that we were headed here for that.
I was just waiting for us to get to Ye Olde Asylum, which would be now stocking all-new Taylor Hebert as a hopefully-limited time offer.
Of course, it wasn't really an asylum if you looked at the paperwork. We don't have them anymore. They're a legacy of a less enlightened era. That was what I'd been told. They didn't do things like cutting up your brain or electrocuting you to try to make you sane again.
But call it an asylum, a loony bin, a funny farm, a psychiatric inpatient ward, or whatever. It was where I was going.
"You want to stop and get something to eat?" my dad asked. He tried a weak smile. "You don't know what the food's going to be like in there."
"Sure," I said.
We pulled in to the nearest place – it turned out to be a McDonalds – and dad went in to grab something for us. By unspoken mutual agreement, we ate in the car. There were conversations we didn't want other people to hear.
"It's just for a little bit," my dad, swallowing a mouthful of Big Mac, told me. "Probably only a week or two, if that. They just want to watch you for a while, in a nice and safe and quiet location. And…" he trailed off.
"… the school doesn't want me back," I said, finishing his sentence for him. I picked at my fries. I wasn't feeling hungry, but I forced myself to eat. At least I could mostly pick things up again. "Not until they know for sure I'm not going to go embarrass them by killing myself and you making a fuss about how they did nothing to help. I'd really hate to be an inconvenience to them. Or get them bad publicity in the press. Worse than I have already."
He pursed his lips. "Look," he said, taking a deep breath, "for my part, I'd quite like to see that you're feeling all right. I know you're not feeling all right about it. You're having nightmares and flashbacks. I don't want you to suffer, kiddo. You do get this, right? I know you've been trying to tough things out so I don't get worried, but that's just worrying me even more!"
"It's not quite…" I began.
"Please. Taylor. Listen to me. You don't need to worry about the cost – it's not going to bankrupt me or anything like that – because they're paying for it. I'm sure when they find you're fine – which they will do when you've talked about things and had a chance to realise nothing like this will happen again – they'll give you a clean bill of health and we can put all of this behind us."
We had already had this conversation. More than once, actually, in the weeks I'd spent recovering in hospital. I ran my fingers over my new wrist-bands, which covered the self-inflicted scars. My fingers were still a mess, with blue bandages covering regrowing fingernails. I'd been lucky, they'd said at the hospital. It had been touch-and-go for a while for some of my fingers. The infections had nearly claimed some of them. I still couldn't feel things properly with two fingers on my left hand, and it hurt to bend them.
"Of course, let's all put it behind us," I said, bitterly. My dad's face went red, but I didn't care. "Because that's what they want, isn't it? The school doesn't like that the cops are involved. Let's just turn it into a story about how I'm crazy and tried to kill myself."
I'd told the policewoman who'd come in to get details that it had been Emma, Sophia and Madison who had done it, and that no one else had been around. I'd left out that they'd been three aspects of a demonic force, because that was the sort of thing you didn't say to the police. I was sure it had been them. They had the motive and their past actions supported it.
Of course, they had denied it. Which turned it into a she-said-she-said case. There was just no evidence, and the school would trust the word of Miss Popular, Miss Popular-with-a-rich-lawyer-for-a-dad, and Miss Athletic over a weirdo loner like me. The idea of getting fingerprints or DNA was laughable because there were years of greasy fingerprints over the lockers, and as for DNA – well, half the girls in the school would show up as having contributed to the blood in there. And there were no witnesses. I didn't know if that was because the three of them had really done it when there was no one around, or just that no one had come forward. I liked to think that it was the former. After all, even if everything had been all weird, I hadn't seen anyone else around. My faith in my schoolmates wasn't high enough that I could rule out the latter.
My case hadn't been helped by the way I'd been waking screaming, four nights a week. It had got worse once they'd reduced the painkillers. When I was no longer in a drugged stupor, I dreamed I was back in the locker. Usually, I woke up when the first nail went in. Usually.
It wasn't just the dreams. I'd see flashes of the weird empty, cold, rusted world I'd seen during the day. I'd made the mistake of letting my dad know, too. Not the full details, of course, but when he'd found me crying in my bed after going to the toilets and seeing, just for a moment, the lipstick on the mirror, I hadn't been any state to lie to him properly. It was getting worse the less sleep I got. I was seeing flashes of the cold, empty, rusted world most days. So he 'knew' that I kept on having flashbacks to just before I got shut in the locker, and was having nightmares.
In my calmer moments, I half-thought that maybe some time as an in-patient in a psychiatric place might help. Maybe if I talked about it, things would be better.
But if I talked about it, they'd think I was really crazy. So what if I was having nightmares? Anyone would be having nightmares if they'd been shut in a locker like that. So what if I was having flashbacks? They'd fade with time. And it wasn't really my fault that I'd hit that nurse who'd come to check on me when I'd been having a nightmare. I wasn't even awake when I did it.
Still, the prospect of spending time away from school… it wasn't unappealing from a certain point of view. I didn't want to see Sophia, Emma or Madison ever again.
I just didn't want people to think that I was crazy.
We finished our meals, and headed on, the winter sunlight fading. The place itself was just outside Brockton Bay, a distance back from the main road where the outskirts trailed off. On first inspection, the central building on the complex looked like it had been converted from a hotel. At least that was better than looking like it had been converted from a prison.
The hotel feeling was reinforced by the presence of an entry desk, and a place to check in the one bag I was permitted. It was going to be searched for contraband. The elderly man sitting behind the desk gave my dad some papers to sign. I just looked around, feeling lost. Mid-way through the paperwork, a woman arrived and gave the pair of us a talk on the 'code of conduct' and how there were medical professionals on staff and how they were here to help me.
There were a thousand little things like that, which all seemed to be summarised by 'we're here to help you, and so you should do what we tell you to do and take any medication you get prescribed'. It blurred into a mix of words and rules and smiling people whose expressions didn't reach their eyes. I just sat there, letting the words wash over me, and tried to ignore the churning feeling in my stomach.
Perhaps eating a greasy fast food meal had been a mistake.
My dad squeezed my hand. I gasped, and he winced. "Sorry," he said, pausing while he reset his chain of thoughts. "You're going to be all right," he said, and I wasn't sure if he was asking a question or trying to reassure me. Or possibly trying to reassure himself. I bit my lower lip, and tried not to look scared or cry. I don't think it worked too well, because he wrapped me up in a big hug. "I'll visit whenever I can get time," he promised, choking up.
"Thank you," I whispered.
With our farewells said, I was taken to get dressed in more 'appropriate' garments, which was a nice way of saying that I didn't even get to choose what I wore here. The baggy pyjamas that were waiting for me in the changing room were a statement in their own right. We don't trust you with your own clothing, they said. There wasn't even a bra. It had to go, in case I used it to hang myself. That was a thing people did, according to books. I would have been worried rather than just insulted if… uh, the lack had been a major hardship for me. My mum had only gone up to a B-cup after having me, and I took after her there.
Someone of a more philosophical bearing might have looked at the symbolic meaning. We were going to be treated like little children in here, so the lack of one of the signs of womanhood was appropriate in a perverse way. I wasn't feeling in such a state of mind, and thus it was just an indignity.
I slumped down, staring at my bandaged hands. I sniffled, flexing my fingers and feeling the dull ache. I'd been allowed to keep the wrist bands, at least. Clearly they could get away with manslaughter of dignity, but not murder.
There was a knock at the door. "Taylor," a woman called out. "Are you decent?"
"Yes," I answered.
A bulky woman, with a long, almost horse-like face entered. "Good evening. I'm Hannah." She even looked sympathetic when she said, "I understand it might feel bad to not be allowed to dress how you want. You're probably feeling kinda patronised and blue right now, yeah?"
"A little," I admitted.
"Well, that's just natural. There's a more flexible dress code allowed after you've got settled in, but at the moment, you're vulnerable. When we're sure you're not going to do anything silly, then there are more things you're allowed to wear."
I didn't feel very vulnerable, but I said nothing. I endured the patting down which checked that I wasn't hiding things on my person with what dignity I had left.
"Anyway," Hannah said, "I'm the point of contact for the Wilson rooms, which is where you'll be staying. It's a medium-term wing, so it's very unlikely you'll be here for more than a few months. There are five other girls in Wilson, and I'll introduce you to them later; we believe in mutual support here. If you have any problems, anything you'd like changed, then you just need to find me and I'll see what I can do. When we talk, it's confidential, and I'll only ever say anything to anyone else if I think you're really at risk. Okay? That's a promise."
"I understand," I said. Mutual support and other girls to talk to. How wonderful. I already wanted to leave. And faster than 'a few months'.
"I thought I'd show you to your room first and then I can show you around the place," she continued. "We can go over some of the rules and routines, and if your psychiatrist is free, I can introduce you to her. And also," the pager at her belt chimed, and she looked down. "Sorry, sorry," she said, going to check it.
"It's fine," I said.
She read the message, pursing her lips. "Okay, there's been a little change of plans," she said, eyes narrowed. "I can show you to your room, but then I'm needed somewhere. I'm sorry, this wasn't how things were meant to start, but…"
"It's fine," I said again, standing up.
"You can say more than two words at a time," she said with a forced smile.
"Oh." I supposed I hadn't been. I forced a fake smile. "I'm just feeling nervous."
"That's natural," she said. "Now, if you'll just come with me." I followed, trailed by someone who I mentally tagged as an orderly despite not being told what their actual job was.
My room for the immediate future was painted in a blandly inoffensive shade of pink. The windows were large, and only opened at the very top. The bed was built into the wall. The light fittings were likewise sealed into the room. There was a television, tucked into a locked cabinet which was bolted to the walls.
There were no sharp corners anywhere.
A perverse, impish instinct in my mind immediately started trying to work out a way to hurt myself with the things in here. Not that I wanted to. It was just a statement of rebellion. A silly one. I was going to be a good little girl and not scream at every last thing, and so I could go home. That was the plan.
"The staff will just be checking through your baggage," the orderly said in a bored tone, "and then it'll be delivered here. If you aren't trying to bring in any forbidden items, it shouldn't take too long."
"They said that books would be fine on the website," I asked, feeling a bit nervous. It looked like I was going to be bored here, and if I didn't have things to read, I might actually go crazy.
"Books are fine," she said, "as long as they're not on the restricted titles list."
Great. So who knew what kind of restrictions I'd be facing? I hadn't been able to find what was allowed and what was not on the website, so I'd just told dad to take a selection from my room.
An hour later, and Hannah hadn't returned. My baggage hadn't arrived either. I found the remote, and turned on the television, browsing through the channels until I found a news channel. There was some kind of PRT news conference going on. Apparently some villain called the Gatemaster had escaped from custody, and questions were being asked. Boring. Next channel. Something going on in Africa. Boring. Next channel. Aerial video of Florida Man chasing down a boat before headbutting the engine. Somewhat more interesting, but interrupted by an ad break.
With a sigh, I turned the television off. Had they forgotten about me already? Had everyone vanished? Was I in the empty, cold place I'd seen before I had been shut in the locker? Was this just a trap, a way to lure me back into there and… I took a deep breath.
No, that was just ridiculous. Settling down on my bed, I stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. Why had I even agreed to do this? Oh yes. Because I was suffering flashbacks, having nightmares, had a constant fear of ending up in the locker again, and I was seeing things which weren't there.
Like right now. Even as I watched, the paint flaked off the ceiling to reveal the bare concrete covered in scribblings in who-knew-what. My heart beat like a drum, pounding in my chest. I wanted to scream, but bit down. I'm not crazy, I told myself, over and over again. I couldn't let them think I was crazy. Even if when I looked around, the television screen was cracked and broken and something had been scribbled on the protective screen in red lipstick. Everything just looked cold and bleak. At heart it was no different from a jail.
That wasn't the worst bit. There was a deep, red-black stain in the floor, all around the bed. And streaky handprints on the walls, in that same, morbid colour. And one on the window. Just looking at them made me feel awful. They felt like misery and death; they smelt like blood. The scent filled the room.
I felt sick. But I couldn't scream. I wouldn't let myself.
The bed was wet to the touch, cold clinging liquid seeping through my clothes. I sat up, arms protesting at the sudden movement, and the red-black oily liquid dripped from me. The bed was drenched. I was drenched. It was clinging to me and it wouldn't let go, seeping coldness right into my bones.
Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was seeing things and I should just end it. I'd never have to go back to school again, never have to face the bullies, never have to put up with the shame and the way that people would talk about me behind my back.
No. I squared my jaw. There was something external about the way I felt. That wasn't me. Those weren't my thoughts. This was something else, thinking for me. I ground my teeth together, and closed my eyes, thinking of nothing else. If it wasn't gone when I opened my eyes, I would scream.
The scent faded. I opened my eyes to the sight of pink walls and an unbroken TV. There was no strange red-black oil anywhere.
I don't know what drove me to do what I did next. Curiosity, perhaps. Or just a refusal to let a little thing like waking hallucinations win. I can be very stubborn sometimes. But I thought of the strange rusted world, thought of the bitterly cold oil, thought of what I'd seen in the locker room, and let out a slow breath.
And before my eyes, the paint flaked away from the walls once again revealing the scrawls and handprints, and the scent of blood was back. I closed my eyes, and thought of nothing, and it was gone.
Huh.
1. Find the one where missiles prevail incompletely.
Chapter 1.05
The horizon ahead was blood red, meeting iron-grey clouds above. The car's engine droned meaninglessly as I stared out the window, watching the illuminated signs flash by. McDonalds, Walmart, QuikSave, Belco, Burger King, Taco Bell. The outskirts of Brockton Bay was a mess of out-of-town shops, fast food, fuel pumps and industrial estates. They were relatively lively along the freeway, but I knew the side roads were packed with abandoned warehouses and closed stores. Most of the meth in the city apparently came from around that post-industrial hellhole. Not that we were headed here for that.
I was just waiting for us to get to Ye Olde Asylum, which would be now stocking all-new Taylor Hebert as a hopefully-limited time offer.
Of course, it wasn't really an asylum if you looked at the paperwork. We don't have them anymore. They're a legacy of a less enlightened era. That was what I'd been told. They didn't do things like cutting up your brain or electrocuting you to try to make you sane again.
But call it an asylum, a loony bin, a funny farm, a psychiatric inpatient ward, or whatever. It was where I was going.
"You want to stop and get something to eat?" my dad asked. He tried a weak smile. "You don't know what the food's going to be like in there."
"Sure," I said.
We pulled in to the nearest place – it turned out to be a McDonalds – and dad went in to grab something for us. By unspoken mutual agreement, we ate in the car. There were conversations we didn't want other people to hear.
"It's just for a little bit," my dad, swallowing a mouthful of Big Mac, told me. "Probably only a week or two, if that. They just want to watch you for a while, in a nice and safe and quiet location. And…" he trailed off.
"… the school doesn't want me back," I said, finishing his sentence for him. I picked at my fries. I wasn't feeling hungry, but I forced myself to eat. At least I could mostly pick things up again. "Not until they know for sure I'm not going to go embarrass them by killing myself and you making a fuss about how they did nothing to help. I'd really hate to be an inconvenience to them. Or get them bad publicity in the press. Worse than I have already."
He pursed his lips. "Look," he said, taking a deep breath, "for my part, I'd quite like to see that you're feeling all right. I know you're not feeling all right about it. You're having nightmares and flashbacks. I don't want you to suffer, kiddo. You do get this, right? I know you've been trying to tough things out so I don't get worried, but that's just worrying me even more!"
"It's not quite…" I began.
"Please. Taylor. Listen to me. You don't need to worry about the cost – it's not going to bankrupt me or anything like that – because they're paying for it. I'm sure when they find you're fine – which they will do when you've talked about things and had a chance to realise nothing like this will happen again – they'll give you a clean bill of health and we can put all of this behind us."
We had already had this conversation. More than once, actually, in the weeks I'd spent recovering in hospital. I ran my fingers over my new wrist-bands, which covered the self-inflicted scars. My fingers were still a mess, with blue bandages covering regrowing fingernails. I'd been lucky, they'd said at the hospital. It had been touch-and-go for a while for some of my fingers. The infections had nearly claimed some of them. I still couldn't feel things properly with two fingers on my left hand, and it hurt to bend them.
"Of course, let's all put it behind us," I said, bitterly. My dad's face went red, but I didn't care. "Because that's what they want, isn't it? The school doesn't like that the cops are involved. Let's just turn it into a story about how I'm crazy and tried to kill myself."
I'd told the policewoman who'd come in to get details that it had been Emma, Sophia and Madison who had done it, and that no one else had been around. I'd left out that they'd been three aspects of a demonic force, because that was the sort of thing you didn't say to the police. I was sure it had been them. They had the motive and their past actions supported it.
Of course, they had denied it. Which turned it into a she-said-she-said case. There was just no evidence, and the school would trust the word of Miss Popular, Miss Popular-with-a-rich-lawyer-for-a-dad, and Miss Athletic over a weirdo loner like me. The idea of getting fingerprints or DNA was laughable because there were years of greasy fingerprints over the lockers, and as for DNA – well, half the girls in the school would show up as having contributed to the blood in there. And there were no witnesses. I didn't know if that was because the three of them had really done it when there was no one around, or just that no one had come forward. I liked to think that it was the former. After all, even if everything had been all weird, I hadn't seen anyone else around. My faith in my schoolmates wasn't high enough that I could rule out the latter.
My case hadn't been helped by the way I'd been waking screaming, four nights a week. It had got worse once they'd reduced the painkillers. When I was no longer in a drugged stupor, I dreamed I was back in the locker. Usually, I woke up when the first nail went in. Usually.
It wasn't just the dreams. I'd see flashes of the weird empty, cold, rusted world I'd seen during the day. I'd made the mistake of letting my dad know, too. Not the full details, of course, but when he'd found me crying in my bed after going to the toilets and seeing, just for a moment, the lipstick on the mirror, I hadn't been any state to lie to him properly. It was getting worse the less sleep I got. I was seeing flashes of the cold, empty, rusted world most days. So he 'knew' that I kept on having flashbacks to just before I got shut in the locker, and was having nightmares.
In my calmer moments, I half-thought that maybe some time as an in-patient in a psychiatric place might help. Maybe if I talked about it, things would be better.
But if I talked about it, they'd think I was really crazy. So what if I was having nightmares? Anyone would be having nightmares if they'd been shut in a locker like that. So what if I was having flashbacks? They'd fade with time. And it wasn't really my fault that I'd hit that nurse who'd come to check on me when I'd been having a nightmare. I wasn't even awake when I did it.
Still, the prospect of spending time away from school… it wasn't unappealing from a certain point of view. I didn't want to see Sophia, Emma or Madison ever again.
I just didn't want people to think that I was crazy.
We finished our meals, and headed on, the winter sunlight fading. The place itself was just outside Brockton Bay, a distance back from the main road where the outskirts trailed off. On first inspection, the central building on the complex looked like it had been converted from a hotel. At least that was better than looking like it had been converted from a prison.
The hotel feeling was reinforced by the presence of an entry desk, and a place to check in the one bag I was permitted. It was going to be searched for contraband. The elderly man sitting behind the desk gave my dad some papers to sign. I just looked around, feeling lost. Mid-way through the paperwork, a woman arrived and gave the pair of us a talk on the 'code of conduct' and how there were medical professionals on staff and how they were here to help me.
There were a thousand little things like that, which all seemed to be summarised by 'we're here to help you, and so you should do what we tell you to do and take any medication you get prescribed'. It blurred into a mix of words and rules and smiling people whose expressions didn't reach their eyes. I just sat there, letting the words wash over me, and tried to ignore the churning feeling in my stomach.
Perhaps eating a greasy fast food meal had been a mistake.
My dad squeezed my hand. I gasped, and he winced. "Sorry," he said, pausing while he reset his chain of thoughts. "You're going to be all right," he said, and I wasn't sure if he was asking a question or trying to reassure me. Or possibly trying to reassure himself. I bit my lower lip, and tried not to look scared or cry. I don't think it worked too well, because he wrapped me up in a big hug. "I'll visit whenever I can get time," he promised, choking up.
"Thank you," I whispered.
With our farewells said, I was taken to get dressed in more 'appropriate' garments, which was a nice way of saying that I didn't even get to choose what I wore here. The baggy pyjamas that were waiting for me in the changing room were a statement in their own right. We don't trust you with your own clothing, they said. There wasn't even a bra. It had to go, in case I used it to hang myself. That was a thing people did, according to books. I would have been worried rather than just insulted if… uh, the lack had been a major hardship for me. My mum had only gone up to a B-cup after having me, and I took after her there.
Someone of a more philosophical bearing might have looked at the symbolic meaning. We were going to be treated like little children in here, so the lack of one of the signs of womanhood was appropriate in a perverse way. I wasn't feeling in such a state of mind, and thus it was just an indignity.
I slumped down, staring at my bandaged hands. I sniffled, flexing my fingers and feeling the dull ache. I'd been allowed to keep the wrist bands, at least. Clearly they could get away with manslaughter of dignity, but not murder.
There was a knock at the door. "Taylor," a woman called out. "Are you decent?"
"Yes," I answered.
A bulky woman, with a long, almost horse-like face entered. "Good evening. I'm Hannah." She even looked sympathetic when she said, "I understand it might feel bad to not be allowed to dress how you want. You're probably feeling kinda patronised and blue right now, yeah?"
"A little," I admitted.
"Well, that's just natural. There's a more flexible dress code allowed after you've got settled in, but at the moment, you're vulnerable. When we're sure you're not going to do anything silly, then there are more things you're allowed to wear."
I didn't feel very vulnerable, but I said nothing. I endured the patting down which checked that I wasn't hiding things on my person with what dignity I had left.
"Anyway," Hannah said, "I'm the point of contact for the Wilson rooms, which is where you'll be staying. It's a medium-term wing, so it's very unlikely you'll be here for more than a few months. There are five other girls in Wilson, and I'll introduce you to them later; we believe in mutual support here. If you have any problems, anything you'd like changed, then you just need to find me and I'll see what I can do. When we talk, it's confidential, and I'll only ever say anything to anyone else if I think you're really at risk. Okay? That's a promise."
"I understand," I said. Mutual support and other girls to talk to. How wonderful. I already wanted to leave. And faster than 'a few months'.
"I thought I'd show you to your room first and then I can show you around the place," she continued. "We can go over some of the rules and routines, and if your psychiatrist is free, I can introduce you to her. And also," the pager at her belt chimed, and she looked down. "Sorry, sorry," she said, going to check it.
"It's fine," I said.
She read the message, pursing her lips. "Okay, there's been a little change of plans," she said, eyes narrowed. "I can show you to your room, but then I'm needed somewhere. I'm sorry, this wasn't how things were meant to start, but…"
"It's fine," I said again, standing up.
"You can say more than two words at a time," she said with a forced smile.
"Oh." I supposed I hadn't been. I forced a fake smile. "I'm just feeling nervous."
"That's natural," she said. "Now, if you'll just come with me." I followed, trailed by someone who I mentally tagged as an orderly despite not being told what their actual job was.
My room for the immediate future was painted in a blandly inoffensive shade of pink. The windows were large, and only opened at the very top. The bed was built into the wall. The light fittings were likewise sealed into the room. There was a television, tucked into a locked cabinet which was bolted to the walls.
There were no sharp corners anywhere.
A perverse, impish instinct in my mind immediately started trying to work out a way to hurt myself with the things in here. Not that I wanted to. It was just a statement of rebellion. A silly one. I was going to be a good little girl and not scream at every last thing, and so I could go home. That was the plan.
"The staff will just be checking through your baggage," the orderly said in a bored tone, "and then it'll be delivered here. If you aren't trying to bring in any forbidden items, it shouldn't take too long."
"They said that books would be fine on the website," I asked, feeling a bit nervous. It looked like I was going to be bored here, and if I didn't have things to read, I might actually go crazy.
"Books are fine," she said, "as long as they're not on the restricted titles list."
Great. So who knew what kind of restrictions I'd be facing? I hadn't been able to find what was allowed and what was not on the website, so I'd just told dad to take a selection from my room.
An hour later, and Hannah hadn't returned. My baggage hadn't arrived either. I found the remote, and turned on the television, browsing through the channels until I found a news channel. There was some kind of PRT news conference going on. Apparently some villain called the Gatemaster had escaped from custody, and questions were being asked. Boring. Next channel. Something going on in Africa. Boring. Next channel. Aerial video of Florida Man chasing down a boat before headbutting the engine. Somewhat more interesting, but interrupted by an ad break.
With a sigh, I turned the television off. Had they forgotten about me already? Had everyone vanished? Was I in the empty, cold place I'd seen before I had been shut in the locker? Was this just a trap, a way to lure me back into there and… I took a deep breath.
No, that was just ridiculous. Settling down on my bed, I stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. Why had I even agreed to do this? Oh yes. Because I was suffering flashbacks, having nightmares, had a constant fear of ending up in the locker again, and I was seeing things which weren't there.
Like right now. Even as I watched, the paint flaked off the ceiling to reveal the bare concrete covered in scribblings in who-knew-what. My heart beat like a drum, pounding in my chest. I wanted to scream, but bit down. I'm not crazy, I told myself, over and over again. I couldn't let them think I was crazy. Even if when I looked around, the television screen was cracked and broken and something had been scribbled on the protective screen in red lipstick. Everything just looked cold and bleak. At heart it was no different from a jail.
That wasn't the worst bit. There was a deep, red-black stain in the floor, all around the bed. And streaky handprints on the walls, in that same, morbid colour. And one on the window. Just looking at them made me feel awful. They felt like misery and death; they smelt like blood. The scent filled the room.
I felt sick. But I couldn't scream. I wouldn't let myself.
The bed was wet to the touch, cold clinging liquid seeping through my clothes. I sat up, arms protesting at the sudden movement, and the red-black oily liquid dripped from me. The bed was drenched. I was drenched. It was clinging to me and it wouldn't let go, seeping coldness right into my bones.
Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was seeing things and I should just end it. I'd never have to go back to school again, never have to face the bullies, never have to put up with the shame and the way that people would talk about me behind my back.
No. I squared my jaw. There was something external about the way I felt. That wasn't me. Those weren't my thoughts. This was something else, thinking for me. I ground my teeth together, and closed my eyes, thinking of nothing else. If it wasn't gone when I opened my eyes, I would scream.
The scent faded. I opened my eyes to the sight of pink walls and an unbroken TV. There was no strange red-black oil anywhere.
I don't know what drove me to do what I did next. Curiosity, perhaps. Or just a refusal to let a little thing like waking hallucinations win. I can be very stubborn sometimes. But I thought of the strange rusted world, thought of the bitterly cold oil, thought of what I'd seen in the locker room, and let out a slow breath.
And before my eyes, the paint flaked away from the walls once again revealing the scrawls and handprints, and the scent of blood was back. I closed my eyes, and thought of nothing, and it was gone.
Huh.
This thread was crowned as one of the "Elements of Sufficient Velocity" during the forum's 2023 "Sufficiently Skeletons" Spring Event! Take a look below!
1. Find the one where missiles prevail incompletely.
Revlid
blob of bugs
- Location
- England
They mostly come at night... mostly.EarthScorpion said:
Poor Taylor. If only all you had to deal with were alien hand-crabs randy for skullfucking. If only.
- Location
- The sixth circle of Hell (second on weekends)
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Well, if it is Mage, Taylor certainly fits. Mages are almost universally that certain kind of person to whom even the implication that they are not allowed to do something is enough reason for them to want to do it.EarthScorpion said:
Truly, they are weak against reverse psychology. In much the same way that vampires are weak against sunlight.
Okay, uh. Putting a psychic in a room that has had crazy suicidal people in it for years? Perhaps not the best way for her to get better.EarthScorpion said:
Ooooo.EarthScorpion said:
So now she can turn it on and off.
This should be fun.
"Tell us Miss Hebert, what is your power?"EarthScorpion said:
"I can drive myself into and out of nightmare hallucinations at will."
Still better than some peoples' powers
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
To be fair, they don't KNOW he's a psychic.Aleph said:
And even then, if it's like most old New England asylums, they've been around for a century or two easily, and back then, well, let's just say the 1800s weren't safe for mentally ill people.
TheLastOne
Person of impeccable tastes (for destruction)
Huh, so the Asylum is going to keep her out of trouble for the three months it takes to bring us to the point of canon starts (or close to it), and give her a safe place to experiment.
Also, a quick look at The World's Worst Superhero, Florida Man!
Also, a quick look at The World's Worst Superhero, Florida Man!
Roadie
A plate full of blins and a cat nearby.
"Synaesthetic postcognition" could be a useful euphemism, if those handprints and markings are accurate to historical events.HIMP_Dahak said:"Tell us Miss Hebert, what is your power?"
"I can drive myself into and out of nightmare hallucinations at will."
Still better than some peoples' powers
TheLastOne
Person of impeccable tastes (for destruction)
Scapegoat and Garrot would like to trade up now, yes? Pretty please?HIMP_Dahak said:"Tell us Miss Hebert, what is your power?"
"I can drive myself into and out of nightmare hallucinations at will."
Still better than some peoples' powers
Huh, I wonder if she unconsciously divined that somehow, or if it's just ES screwing with us.Vanigo said:
pheonix89
Wants to be Seven Of Nine
- Location
- North American Plaguelands
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Garrote would trade powers with pretty much anyone - hers SUCKS. Ok, it sucks because she can't control it, it would be pretty good if she could.TheLastOne said:
TheLastOne
Person of impeccable tastes (for destruction)
I would give good odds she would trade even if she could - she's been turned into something alien to everyone else. Maybe a beautiful seacreaturish alien, but not human in the least. I mean, there are worse things to get from a personal standpoint, some of the serious mental transformations that make you not a human on the inside, rather then just the out, but Garrot is up there.pheonix89 said:
Ars Poetica
ULTIMA RATIO NEMO OBLIGATUR
- Location
- The Kingdom of Fiore
- Pronouns
- He / Him / His
...Florida Man? Really ES? I... I just don't...
What kind of power would Florida Man even have that lets him headbutt speadboat engines?!!
What kind of power would Florida Man even have that lets him headbutt speadboat engines?!!
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Bath salts.Ars Poetica said:
Stratagemini
Totally a Fire Ferret.
- Location
- Central Park
- Pronouns
- He/Him/They/Them
You know, It might just be a normal unpowered Florida man. As in, a man from Florida.
On second thought, perhaps Normal is the wrong word...
On second thought, perhaps Normal is the wrong word...
As somebody with professional credentials in psychology, who's several years working in the mental health system in multiple roles... let me just say that the 1900s weren't, either. In fact, the 1800s were, overall, better.Night_stalker said:
The 2000s? Improved somewhat, but still not exactly safe. Or pleasant.
Spectrum
Tell me a secret~
- Location
- Behind you~
In before Taylor Mage Sights a Nurse and...well...yeah. The best of both worlds!Blade4 said:
It is not... uh, impossible that his power is fairly similar to Bitch's.Ars Poetica said:
Except it applies to alligators rather than dogs.
(it is also possible that his actions are slightly unpredictable to most Thinkers, although that may be due to the bath salts rather than any innate powers)
Yeah, fuck that. I'm not going to go out and spell things wrong. I have my limits.ScAvenger001 said:
Winged Knight
Still just a crazy man with a wolf on his head
- Location
- Texas
I am absolutely loving the atmosphere and imagery of this story. It's very creepy, and I can't wait to see what happens next now that Taylor seems to be getting a better grip on the strangeness that's invaded her life. And, you know, eventually getting a definite answer about what the crossover is.
Also...
Also...
Any chance Florida Man gets his powers by snorting human and dog ashes?EarthScorpion said:
Psychometry is a real power - Eidolon uses it in canon once.Roadie said:
Holy wows.
At last: a Noncanonpowers!Taylor that not only sounds interesting, and fits into some semblance of actual plot- but isn't horrifically overpowered, and is paired with EXCELLENT story.
The applause is for you, ES!
Miscelleanious things that occured to me while reading:
Taylor essentially got Tattletale's power, except instead of getting intuitive leaps that fill in her knowledge and fact base with regards to something directly, in the here-and-now, she gets a broader, more abstract power that dosen't need the subject to be physically present, only present some time in the past. Both essentially do the same thing, however. Different mechanics, but very similar result. Lie detection. Motives and emotions. Passwords were something of a specialty for Tattletale, but the mental imprinting might very well work for Taylor too... The possabilities...
(Taylor would make an incredible psychologist and counciler with that powerset... the irony... the irony...)
Based on the above, I wonder if Taylor won't end up with the Undersiders, or not only with them this time around. Her powerset would be at least partially redundant... I'd totally see her leading a small team of scarred, emotionaly and mentally damaged parahumans to freedom.... Burnscar. Burnscar, is an example.
Burnscar is a highly underused character. Mostly, just there to round out the Nine. But I always saw so much potential in her psudo-sister needy thing with Labyrinth. Not to mention she came across as very sympathetic- even if their relationship seemed unhealthy. With Taylor's different powerset, I would be very interested in seeing her explored more extensively. Her story, and Labyrinth's story, by extension, could factor in heavily in this version of events.
And Labyrinth herself, lots of interesting potential, sadly underused.
Taylor's new team? Taylor acting as a dark (light?) mirror to Tattletale? That has so many interesting implications, so many possabilities. Again, her power naturally lends itself to counciling. (Irony!) It would also lend itself well to tactics and strategy.
Taylor will need to develope her control severly before she looks at Jack Slash. In fact, even seeing a wall he brushed while out on an evening strollmight be would be bad disasterous for her mental health.
Even with a Thinker/Precog combo, Taylor is Taylor, and thus ought to kick serious ass. In fact, depending on how she can develope her powers, this might actually make her better in combat situations. Think about it, no more limitations in connection to insect numbers, no more weapons to take away (or kill with pesticides). Taylor is known best in canon for takeing a weak, some would say comparitively useless power, and she makes it fearsome. If Taylor can share her visions with people (for example, touching them allows her to force them to see the visions as she sees fit), then you have a potent psychological weapon.
All in all? I give you five stars!
At last: a Noncanonpowers!Taylor that not only sounds interesting, and fits into some semblance of actual plot- but isn't horrifically overpowered, and is paired with EXCELLENT story.
The applause is for you, ES!
Miscelleanious things that occured to me while reading:
Taylor essentially got Tattletale's power, except instead of getting intuitive leaps that fill in her knowledge and fact base with regards to something directly, in the here-and-now, she gets a broader, more abstract power that dosen't need the subject to be physically present, only present some time in the past. Both essentially do the same thing, however. Different mechanics, but very similar result. Lie detection. Motives and emotions. Passwords were something of a specialty for Tattletale, but the mental imprinting might very well work for Taylor too... The possabilities...
(Taylor would make an incredible psychologist and counciler with that powerset... the irony... the irony...)
Based on the above, I wonder if Taylor won't end up with the Undersiders, or not only with them this time around. Her powerset would be at least partially redundant... I'd totally see her leading a small team of scarred, emotionaly and mentally damaged parahumans to freedom.... Burnscar. Burnscar, is an example.
Burnscar is a highly underused character. Mostly, just there to round out the Nine. But I always saw so much potential in her psudo-sister needy thing with Labyrinth. Not to mention she came across as very sympathetic- even if their relationship seemed unhealthy. With Taylor's different powerset, I would be very interested in seeing her explored more extensively. Her story, and Labyrinth's story, by extension, could factor in heavily in this version of events.
And Labyrinth herself, lots of interesting potential, sadly underused.
Taylor's new team? Taylor acting as a dark (light?) mirror to Tattletale? That has so many interesting implications, so many possabilities. Again, her power naturally lends itself to counciling. (Irony!) It would also lend itself well to tactics and strategy.
Taylor will need to develope her control severly before she looks at Jack Slash. In fact, even seeing a wall he brushed while out on an evening stroll
Even with a Thinker/Precog combo, Taylor is Taylor, and thus ought to kick serious ass. In fact, depending on how she can develope her powers, this might actually make her better in combat situations. Think about it, no more limitations in connection to insect numbers, no more weapons to take away (or kill with pesticides). Taylor is known best in canon for takeing a weak, some would say comparitively useless power, and she makes it fearsome. If Taylor can share her visions with people (for example, touching them allows her to force them to see the visions as she sees fit), then you have a potent psychological weapon.
All in all? I give you five stars!