Ducksworth

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Is this still open? I'm incredibly intrigued!

Project Genesis

It had been curiosity that pulled Chrys toward the lottery draw, or at least that was the version she’d settled on. Curiosity sounded cleaner than the truth. It sounded better than I’ve run out of reasons to stay or what the hell else am I supposed to do. Curiosity made her sound like someone who still had the energy to care.

The walk to the facility was long, but long walks had become a kind of rhythm in her life. Grief stretched distance, made every journey feel familiar. She’d walked to hospitals, to vigils, to places she didn’t want to remember. This was just another path in a world that had already taken too much from her. Maybe it was duty that kept her moving. Maybe guilt. Maybe the quiet, stubborn belief that she owed it to the people she’d lost to at least try again. Or maybe she just wanted a place where the world wasn’t constantly collapsing on top of her.

She already knew she wouldn’t stay with the others once they crossed through. She’d get tools, supplies, whatever they issued, and then she’d slip away. Slow, careful, methodical, the way she’d been taught. Fell a tree. Shape it. Build something that didn’t need permission to exist. What could they do to her on the other side? Drag her back through sixty-five million years?

The facility interior was exactly what she expected: metal walls, soldiers, the hum of machinery pretending to be mercy. She stepped into the scanner without ceremony.

“Clear.”

That was it. No welcome. No explanation. Just clearance, like she was a piece of lumber being graded. Inside the holding room, she found an empty cot and claimed it without fuss. Bag down. Body down. One foot on the floor, the other bent. She let herself sink into the thin mattress, eyes half-closed, letting the noise of the room fade into a dull hum. The air was too clean. Too still. It made her skin itch. Then the announcement came.

All personal belongings.

She exhaled a long, slow breath. “Fucking bullshit,” she muttered, shoving her things deeper into her bag. There wasn’t much she cared about anymore. Not really.

Except the paper. Her fingers brushed the folded scrap, soft at the edges from being handled too many times. She held it for a moment, thumb tracing the familiar crease. It wasn’t valuable. It wasn’t even particularly useful. But it was the last thing she had that still felt… warm.

Could she hide it? Maybe. But then the woman across the room broke, panic sharp and raw, and Chrys watched her get dragged out with the same numb recognition she’d felt at too many protests. She knew what happened to people who pushed back. She’d seen it. She’d lived through the aftermath.

Her jaw tightened. She closed her fist around the paper once, just once, letting the ache settle in her chest. Then she tucked it into her bag and shut her eyes. If losing it was the price of stepping through that tear, the price of doing the one thing she knew she was still capable of, then she’d pay it. She’d already lost everything else.

The line moved. Slowly at first, then faster after the screaming stopped. Chrys stayed seated until the last possible moment, until the guard’s gaze flicked toward her with the faintest hint of impatience. She rose, slinging the bag over her shoulder, and stepped into line.

When her turn came, she didn’t hesitate, not outwardly. She set the bag on the table, fingers lingering for half a heartbeat before she let go. The officer reached for it. Chrys lifted her eyes. Her stare was flat, cold, and utterly unblinking, not loud, not dramatic, but sharp enough to cut. A silent warning. A promise. The kind of look that didn’t need volume to be understood. The officer didn’t flinch, but Chrys saw the tiny shift, the way their shoulders stiffened, the way their breath paused for just a fraction of a second.

Good.

Chrys stepped back, hands empty now, the absence of weight on her shoulder feeling like a bruise. She returned to her cot, lowering herself onto it with a slow exhale. She didn’t look at the wall right away. Across the room, the little boy, the one who’d clung to his mother like she was the last solid thing in the world, was curled against her chest, shoulders shaking with quiet, exhausted sobs. His small hands fisted in her shirt, his face buried, his grief raw and unfiltered. Chrys felt something in her chest twist. Not sharply. Not suddenly. More like an old wound remembering itself.

Yeah, she thought, settling back onto her cot, eyes drifting upward. Me too, kid. Me too.

Only then did she let her gaze settle on the wall, jaw tightening as she braced herself for whatever came next.

Project Genesis

Just a FYI for those who may have missed it, this is the IC!

Project Genesis

Apologies on the delay! I never got a ping this was created :o I have posted my CS but will update it to be fancy later! o/

Project Genesis

Chrysanthemum Turner

faceclaim

____________________________________________________________

Name: Chrysanthemum Turner
Goes by: Chrys
Sex: Female
Age: 26
Occupation: Architectural Designer / Carpenter

Background

Chrysanthemum Turner was named with care. Her mother, Lila, chose the name deliberately. Chrys never knew exactly why. By the time she was old enough to ask, her mother was already gone, killed in a transport accident while Chrys was still young enough to struggle with the permanence of it. After that, it was just Chrys and her father, David.

He was a quiet, steady man who believed that understanding how things worked made the world easier to face. He fixed things himself whenever he could, not out of pride, but because he liked knowing that something broken could be made whole again with patience and effort. Chrys followed him everywhere, handed him tools, asked questions. He never treated her like she was fragile. He showed her how to measure carefully, how to work methodically, how to take pride in things that held together.
Those lessons stayed with her.

When Chrys was sixteen, David started getting tired. At first, it seemed unremarkable. Everyone was tired. The air was already growing thicker, the future already narrowing. David brushed off her concern and told her it was nothing worth worrying about. By the time the truth came out, the cancer had already progressed too far to stop. He told her quietly, apologetically, as if his illness were something he regretted burdening her with.

Chrys finished school while learning how to manage hospital appointments, paperwork, and meals neither of them had much appetite for. She learned how to sit in sterile rooms and listen while doctors spoke in careful, practiced tones. When her father died, there was no dramatic collapse. Just a sudden, hollow quiet that settled in and never fully left.

She chose architecture and construction because it made sense. Buildings followed rules. If something was unsound, it could be reinforced. If something failed, there was a reason. She gravitated toward work that allowed her to design with her hands as well as on paper, preferring practicality over recognition. She became known as reliable rather than inspired, thorough rather than visionary. It was through her work that she met Leah.

Leah was everything Chrys was not. Outspoken, idealistic, unafraid to be seen. She believed the world could still be changed if enough people stood up and demanded it. Chrys followed her to protests not because she loved crowds or confrontation, but because she loved Leah. They balanced each other in ways Chrys never fully articulated.

No one ever agreed on how it started. Reports conflicted. Footage was edited. Responsibility dissolved into argument and noise. Leah did not come home. After that, the world felt spent. Chrys kept working. She kept building things she knew would eventually rot beneath poisoned air and corporate indifference. When news of the anomaly first surfaced, she barely noticed. Another impossible headline in a world already collapsing under the weight of too many of them. The selection came later. Not an invitation, nor a choice. A notice delivered with clinical indifference, wrapped in Council language and legal certainty. She didn't feel excitement or fear. She felt tired.

But gradually, she came to understand what the anomaly represented. Not hope, no, but Distance. A place untouched by the systems that had taken everything from her. A place where she could build something honest. Something that did not exist to serve profit, power, or survival quotas. She does not see herself as a savior, or a pioneer. She is here because she knows how to make things stand, and because for the first time in years, she might be able to live without the world pressing constantly against her back.

In Secret We Lie: Still Accepting, In Need of Humans

I'd say submit the sheet here and jump in the discord if you want to discuss? We don't have the sheets on the discord

Project Genesis

faceclaim

____________________________________________________________

Name: Chrysanthemum Turner
Goes by: Chrys
Sex: Female
Age: 26
Occupation: Architectural Designer / Carpenter

Background

Chrysanthemum Turner was named with care. Her mother, Lila, chose the name deliberately. Chrys never knew exactly why. By the time she was old enough to ask, her mother was already gone, killed in a transport accident while Chrys was still young enough to struggle with the permanence of it. After that, it was just Chrys and her father, David.

He was a quiet, steady man who believed that understanding how things worked made the world easier to face. He fixed things himself whenever he could, not out of pride, but because he liked knowing that something broken could be made whole again with patience and effort. Chrys followed him everywhere, handed him tools, asked questions. He never treated her like she was fragile. He showed her how to measure carefully, how to work methodically, how to take pride in things that held together.
Those lessons stayed with her.

When Chrys was sixteen, David started getting tired. At first, it seemed unremarkable. Everyone was tired. The air was already growing thicker, the future already narrowing. David brushed off her concern and told her it was nothing worth worrying about. By the time the truth came out, the cancer had already progressed too far to stop. He told her quietly, apologetically, as if his illness were something he regretted burdening her with.

Chrys finished school while learning how to manage hospital appointments, paperwork, and meals neither of them had much appetite for. She learned how to sit in sterile rooms and listen while doctors spoke in careful, practiced tones. When her father died, there was no dramatic collapse. Just a sudden, hollow quiet that settled in and never fully left.

She chose architecture and construction because it made sense. Buildings followed rules. If something was unsound, it could be reinforced. If something failed, there was a reason. She gravitated toward work that allowed her to design with her hands as well as on paper, preferring practicality over recognition. She became known as reliable rather than inspired, thorough rather than visionary. It was through her work that she met Leah.

Leah was everything Chrys was not. Outspoken, idealistic, unafraid to be seen. She believed the world could still be changed if enough people stood up and demanded it. Chrys followed her to protests not because she loved crowds or confrontation, but because she loved Leah. They balanced each other in ways Chrys never fully articulated.

No one ever agreed on how it started. Reports conflicted. Footage was edited. Responsibility dissolved into argument and noise. Leah did not come home. After that, the world felt spent. Chrys kept working. She kept building things she knew would eventually rot beneath poisoned air and corporate indifference. When news of the anomaly first surfaced, she barely noticed. Another impossible headline in a world already collapsing under the weight of too many of them. The selection came later. Not an invitation, nor a choice. A notice delivered with clinical indifference, wrapped in Council language and legal certainty. She didn't feel excitement or fear. She felt tired.

But gradually, she came to understand what the anomaly represented. Not hope, no, but Distance. A place untouched by the systems that had taken everything from her. A place where she could build something honest. Something that did not exist to serve profit, power, or survival quotas. She does not see herself as a savior, or a pioneer. She is here because she knows how to make things stand, and because for the first time in years, she might be able to live without the world pressing constantly against her back.

IH Phoenix Corp Turkey Shoot

Aramis didn’t say anything when Yumi finally looked down and realized the state she was in. The simple "Ah..." drew a tiny shift in his expression — the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he were suppressing a sigh and a laugh at the same time. Locke’s muttered comment summed it up well enough.

The rest of the work unfolded without drama. Hauling the Greatspur carcasses back to town. Turning them in. Bringing the last one home. Aramis moved through it with quiet efficiency, grateful for something practical to focus on.

Back in the kitchen, he settled naturally into the rhythm Locke established — chopping where asked, stirring when directed, offering occasional dry observations when Locke tried something questionable. It was… calming. Predictable. Safe ground after the chaos of earlier.

Then Yumi returned from washing up. And Aramis froze for half a second. Gone was the gore. Gone the blood-slick chaos. Instead she looked—well—he caught himself staring and looked away sharply before his expression could betray anything too obvious. He told himself it was just the contrast. The dramatic shift from battlefield carnage to… her. Clean. Bright-eyed. Smiling softly as she stepped into the warm-lit kitchen. That was all. Probably.

He cleared his throat and said something that, in hindsight, he immediately regretted:

“...ah. Good. You look... functional again.”

Functional? Functional?!

He shut his eyes for a moment as if mentally erasing the line from existence. He tried again, quieter: “...it.. suits you.”

Whatever that meant. Thankfully, the work resumed before he could embarrass himself further. Together, they finished the dinner — Locke leading with confidence, Yumi precise as always, Aramis steady in the background.

When Evie arrived, he stepped back, letting the moment be hers. Her reaction softened the room, her gratitude warm and genuine. Aramis accepted her hug with stiff surprise but didn’t pull away. As the four of them finally sat at the table, the meal glowing under the gentle lights, Aramis allowed himself a moment to breathe — really breathe. It was peaceful. Almost… comfortable.

He glanced, briefly, at Yumi across the table. Then immediately looked down at his plate, ears warming just slightly. He survived giant turkeys today. He was not prepared to survive that.

He didn’t know what Thanksgiving was supposed to feel like but this? This felt close.

IH Phoenix Corp Turkey Shoot

Aramis remained very still as the final Greatspur collapsed behind Locke with a thunderous, ground-shaking thud. Dust rippled over him. A few stray feathers drifted down like the world’s saddest confetti. He blinked at the scene of carnage—the toppled giants, the cratered earth, the shredded field—then at Locke, who had just executed a maneuver so cleanly it looked choreographed.

“…impressive,” he managed, still a little breathless. “Terrifying, but impressive.”

He brushed a smear of dirt from his sleeve.

He did not get all of it.

Then Yumi bounded up.

Covered.

Entirely.

From boots to hairline.

In turkey blood.

She looked like a cheerful yokai that had just burst through the floor of a horror film. A feather stuck to her cheek. Another slid down her scythe. She didn’t seem aware of any of it.

Aramis’ brain made a soft clicking sound as it tried to process the contrast.

"Sugoi!" she said, beaming. "That was freakin' AWESOME!"

Aramis opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then she thrust out a gore-slick, squelching fist.

"Victory fist bump!"

Aramis stared at the fist. Then at the blood dripping from it. Then back at her bright, expectant smile.

He swallowed.

Very slowly, he lifted one hand—carefully, delicately—and extended one single finger forward to tap her knuckle with the smallest, most minimal contact physically possible.

boop.

“…victory,” he said quietly, because at this point he wasn’t sure what else one was supposed to say.

Aramis exhaled.

“I… think we should locate water,” he added, tone flat, gaze flicking meaningfully at the crimson streaks running down her face. “A lake. A river. A well.”

He paused.

“Anything. Soon, preferably.”

IH Phoenix Corp Turkey Shoot

Aramis lay sprawled in the dirt for a heartbeat, staring up at a drifting petal as the world continued violently around him. The stomp that launched him had left his ears ringing, but he quickly realized—miraculously—that the turkey wasn’t attacking him anymore.

He pushed himself upright, grimacing, and followed the thunderous movement with wide eyes.

The lead Greatspur had fully turned toward Locke, who was already sprinting into position. Jumpjets flared, rifle barked, and the giant bird reeled in panicked agitation. The pilot’s precision was enough to keep the beast off Aramis entirely. Aramis exhaled shakily. Then motion behind him made him glance back. And he froze.

Yumi was a blur—vaulting onto a turkey’s back, using it as a springboard, twisting midair, hitting a tree, launching herself again.

Her boots connected with the gargantuan poultry skull hard enough to tilt reality, and her scythe followed with a decapitating slice that felled two titans in a single motion.

She landed in settling dust like a tiny, terrifying warrior-angel. Aramis blinked. Once. Twice.

”…right.”

He turned back to Locke—still moving with practiced military fluidity, still firing, still keeping the turkey from turning back toward him.

Aramis swallowed and gathered himself, brushing dirt from his coat in a futile attempt at dignity.

”I see we’re all having… productive mornings,” he muttered under his breath, breathless and stunned but very much alive.

His grip tightened on his staff as he repositioned himself toward the funnel, trusting—with equal parts relief and exasperation—that his companions had the situation in hand far more than he currently did.

With a weary sigh, he lifted his staff just slightly in Locke’s direction.

A tiny, shimmering barrier flickered into existence around the pilot—small, unnecessary, and almost apologetically weak compared to the carnage unfolding around them.

Aramis muttered, under his breath, in the flattest, half-sung, sarcastically enthusiastic tone imaginable:

”…ganbaaaatte~.”