i. shadowy haunts/nightmares entwined: cell [ cw: past child exploitation, imprisonment, grief, persistent noise, ambient body horror ]
[ Somewhere in the hospital, you step through a door, and end up somewhere you didn't intend to be.
You're in a cell. Either a cell of your own, strangely familiar to you, full of echoes of some moment in your past where you were trapped, or you find yourself sharing a cell with an individual you may not know at first glance, or at all.
The cell that he belongs to is a concrete-walled one with a plexiglass front, otherwise windowless, sunken deep in the earth. The walls are cold to the touch, slightly touched by condensation from the air, and roughly textured. They would hurt to rub skin against too hard, if you didn't have a choice to avoid them.
It's a sparsely furnished space. A low steel-framed bed, a table with two chairs and an unopened deck of cards in the centre, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing behind tamper-proofed sheets of more plexiglass. The air is close, with the faint smell of staled disinfectant overlying something vaguely like the feverish reek of a sick animal. Somewhere, something is beeping repetitively, a dully piercing low battery alarm going off every few seconds, just loud enough to be not quite ignorable, just quiet enough to not interfere with even murmured conversation.
A young man is sitting on the bed, his head bowed. He's wearing a red and black suit, like something a stage magician or ringleader would wear in a performance, a red vest under a dramatic black coat, but it's apparent that the outfit is more structured and durable than a mere costume. Or, for those familiar with the concept, it's a certain type of costume - one concealing panels of armour, with protective, practical black boots for running, the belt around his waist studded with pouches to hold any number of hidden tricks to pull out in a pinch. There's a red-banded top hat sitting next to him on the dull grey bedspread, and he's wearing a full red face mask with vague features, holes for his lowered eyes, and a hole set in the suggestion of a mouth over his real one just large enough to insert something as thin as a cigarette filter.
His gloved hands are clasped loosely between his knees as he rests his forearms on his thighs, seeming to ignore the new arrival in his cell or the one across the hall. But after a few moments, he lifts his head, and meets their eyes with his own dark, intense, hollowed out ones. ]
What are you in for?
[ He asks, quietly, like it's a joke. Behind him, on the wall above the bed, painted in stark orange warning letters, reads: TRICKSTER: SIMURGH EXPOSURE PROTOCOLS IN EFFECT. ]
ii. shadowy haunts/nightmares entwined: coil [ cw: past child exploitation, child abuse, extortion, threats of violence, manipulation, imprisonment ]
[ Or you find yourself, instead, stepping into a windowless office, also buried underground. The office is darkly elegant, simple in design but luxurious in execution, dominated by a large, faintly shining black desk. Someone is sitting behind it, although whoever it is, only their folded hands sheathed in form-fitted black fabric are visible - somehow, the shadows at the back of the office conspire to conceal the man at the desk.
The young man from the cell is standing in the center of the room, not seated at the sole chair across from the desk, like he hasn't earned the right to it. He's in full costume, his top hat planted on his short black hair, and his hands are raised as he speaks - or was speaking, until the new arrival interrupted. ]
- we'll improve, and I take full responsibility for the aspects of the situation that my team was -
[ The young man cuts himself short, his raised hands closing into fists that are defensive in the sense that he seems to want to catch the words he had been speaking out of the air as he glances over his shoulder. The pair of hands folded above the desk flex slightly, fingers working against each other, as the concealed individual takes note. ]
Hello. [ Says the man behind the desk, his voice rich, smooth, authoritative without being brusque. ] I wasn't expecting an interruption, but I'll permit it. Perhaps you can provide some insight into the...aspects of the situation I seem to be unaware of.
[ The young man's face isn't visible, but his flinch shows in the slight tensing of his shoulders under his jacket. ]
They weren't involved. [ He says, quickly, turning back to face the desk and squaring his shoulders. ] As I was saying -
Two interruptions, [ the man in the shadows says, as though he finds that interesting ] Let's avoid a third. I'll ask for your opinion when it's relevant. Now, let's hear from our new arrival.
[ The young man drops his fists to his sides, then makes a conscious effort to relax them. The sound of his inhale fills the silence. It is, apparently, the new arrival's turn to speak - perhaps to make a comment, or ask a clarifying question, or anything else that comes to mind. ]
iii. wildcard/contact [ You can reach me by PM, terriblepurpose, or same username on Discord. Feel free to hit me up for a wildcard or plotting at the plotting post as well! Please indicate if you would like Lisa Wilbourn to also be present (as a voice from the adjacent, unseen cell next to his) in the first prompt. ]
Francis Krouse | Worm | OTA
[ cw: past child exploitation, imprisonment, grief, persistent noise, ambient body horror ]
[ Somewhere in the hospital, you step through a door, and end up somewhere you didn't intend to be.
You're in a cell. Either a cell of your own, strangely familiar to you, full of echoes of some moment in your past where you were trapped, or you find yourself sharing a cell with an individual you may not know at first glance, or at all.
The cell that he belongs to is a concrete-walled one with a plexiglass front, otherwise windowless, sunken deep in the earth. The walls are cold to the touch, slightly touched by condensation from the air, and roughly textured. They would hurt to rub skin against too hard, if you didn't have a choice to avoid them.
It's a sparsely furnished space. A low steel-framed bed, a table with two chairs and an unopened deck of cards in the centre, the overhead fluorescent lights buzzing behind tamper-proofed sheets of more plexiglass. The air is close, with the faint smell of staled disinfectant overlying something vaguely like the feverish reek of a sick animal. Somewhere, something is beeping repetitively, a dully piercing low battery alarm going off every few seconds, just loud enough to be not quite ignorable, just quiet enough to not interfere with even murmured conversation.
A young man is sitting on the bed, his head bowed. He's wearing a red and black suit, like something a stage magician or ringleader would wear in a performance, a red vest under a dramatic black coat, but it's apparent that the outfit is more structured and durable than a mere costume. Or, for those familiar with the concept, it's a certain type of costume - one concealing panels of armour, with protective, practical black boots for running, the belt around his waist studded with pouches to hold any number of hidden tricks to pull out in a pinch. There's a red-banded top hat sitting next to him on the dull grey bedspread, and he's wearing a full red face mask with vague features, holes for his lowered eyes, and a hole set in the suggestion of a mouth over his real one just large enough to insert something as thin as a cigarette filter.
His gloved hands are clasped loosely between his knees as he rests his forearms on his thighs, seeming to ignore the new arrival in his cell or the one across the hall. But after a few moments, he lifts his head, and meets their eyes with his own dark, intense, hollowed out ones. ]
What are you in for?
[ He asks, quietly, like it's a joke. Behind him, on the wall above the bed, painted in stark orange warning letters, reads: TRICKSTER: SIMURGH EXPOSURE PROTOCOLS IN EFFECT. ]
ii. shadowy haunts/nightmares entwined: coil
[ cw: past child exploitation, child abuse, extortion, threats of violence, manipulation, imprisonment ]
[ Or you find yourself, instead, stepping into a windowless office, also buried underground. The office is darkly elegant, simple in design but luxurious in execution, dominated by a large, faintly shining black desk. Someone is sitting behind it, although whoever it is, only their folded hands sheathed in form-fitted black fabric are visible - somehow, the shadows at the back of the office conspire to conceal the man at the desk.
The young man from the cell is standing in the center of the room, not seated at the sole chair across from the desk, like he hasn't earned the right to it. He's in full costume, his top hat planted on his short black hair, and his hands are raised as he speaks - or was speaking, until the new arrival interrupted. ]
- we'll improve, and I take full responsibility for the aspects of the situation that my team was -
[ The young man cuts himself short, his raised hands closing into fists that are defensive in the sense that he seems to want to catch the words he had been speaking out of the air as he glances over his shoulder. The pair of hands folded above the desk flex slightly, fingers working against each other, as the concealed individual takes note. ]
Hello. [ Says the man behind the desk, his voice rich, smooth, authoritative without being brusque. ] I wasn't expecting an interruption, but I'll permit it. Perhaps you can provide some insight into the...aspects of the situation I seem to be unaware of.
[ The young man's face isn't visible, but his flinch shows in the slight tensing of his shoulders under his jacket. ]
They weren't involved. [ He says, quickly, turning back to face the desk and squaring his shoulders. ] As I was saying -
Two interruptions, [ the man in the shadows says, as though he finds that interesting ] Let's avoid a third. I'll ask for your opinion when it's relevant. Now, let's hear from our new arrival.
[ The young man drops his fists to his sides, then makes a conscious effort to relax them. The sound of his inhale fills the silence. It is, apparently, the new arrival's turn to speak - perhaps to make a comment, or ask a clarifying question, or anything else that comes to mind. ]
iii. wildcard/contact
[ You can reach me by PM,