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Where the Phone Goes

Brent | Siena


Brent | Rosa

Brent's Spaghetti

Brent | Siena

Like One of Your French Girls

Brent | Siena | Kusari


Brent | Siena

Catching the Dream

Brent | Emma

Saints and Dragons

Brent | Chris


Brent | Siena

The scene that greeted him above was one of devastation, the stench of the sea so much weaker than it was in the claustrophobic tunnels and the might of the Amigos so much clearer in the light of day. Seaweed clung to one side of the lighthouse, which had stood strong despite the spiderweb fractures that indicated something larger had been smashed against its sides. The forest had been all but demolished, flame, rot, and tidal waves clearing it all away.

It was just soil now, soaked with sea salt and brine, an unfortunate fish flapping about. Poor things, caught up in a conflict greater than what their piscine minds could comprehend. Brent wondered where those flippity floppity bastards were when he had gone fishing, but ultimately, he kicked the resilient bastard back into the waters. It survived whatever the hell the Amigos did, after all. Would be a shame to die of suffocation after that. Musing over pointless trash like that, the arbiter flicked out his phone and laughed at the results. Angelic, still DISCONNECTED on the other side of the island. Gregory, still DISCONNECTED only a short distance away from the estate. And everyone else moving on and on and…

Christ, he didn’t give a fuck.

Once the adrenaline had faded, once the immediate threat of death had gone, once no one he knew was in the process of getting horribly mauled to death, once the storm had stopped hammering down on the world before, the only thing left was the lingering aftertaste of disappointment. He looked at his hands, closed it, and grasped nothing. He looked around him, blinked, and saw nothing. And with nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing he wanted to think, Brent naturally turned towards Siena.

His mouth opened and then closed.

And Brent smiled instead, turning and walking off into the devastated remains of the forest, towards the direction of the estate that had been such a waste of time those past weeks.
Aren't we all dead though? On the inside if not on the outside?
Off With His Her Shirt

Brent | Siena

A Collab by @Papitan@ERode

May as well read the entire IC. We'll have a quiz for you afterwards, hot and ready to see how much you actually remember.

β€œThey have Angel, at least... I think they do.”

What the fuck?

Callan running out to try to save others, Brent could understand. It was noble, even, something that was completely in character for an arbiter whose superpower made her Supergirl. Between letting her stay and letting her go, he would have sided with Callan against Siena, and would have even been willing to help coordinate her from underground. As long as the enemy remained β€˜retreating’, the turquoise haired arbiter should be fine.

Zoe and Kusari riding on top of Chris before Kusari is dropped onto the enemy while infected by the black plague and unleashing a viral explosion to decimate the enemy? Brent could understand that as well, how effective it was for there to be someone capable of β€˜carrying’ Zoe’s power to an enemy. It was smart, and if they didn’t see it coming, it was going to be an instantly fatal maneuver.
But the root of it, the root of that plan was absolutely, totally, mind blowing. Angelic, being alive? After these Amigos have done their best to kill them? A sandstorm potent enough to rip through flesh, a wooden army that even Zoe could chew through fast enough, a shadow monster that almost killed Hazel with a single attack? Not to mention the laughing she-demon that terrorized the estate, bisecting dozens and dozens? Were they really going to endanger the team for someone who, unlike the operation to scout out Gregory, were absolutely, totally, irrevocably FUCKED?

β€œAlli- fuck, cuff transmit. Allison, what th-”

And then all hell broke loose.

It was the rumbling first, and then the roar that sounded above, the sound of a heavy force slamming into the lighthouse. Ernie, either because he saw it or just instinctively knew, scrambled to close the manhole of the tunnel, but it was already too late. Even with the lid sealed, a waterfall bore down into the tunnels, a stark realization of what was happening hitting Brent as hard as the waist-high wave of seawater. Those bastards weren’t leaving. They just had a hydromancer who, with prep time, was going to flush them all out.

Bounding over to the stone cart, Brent leapt in right as the waves struck with enough force to push that weighty object down and down and down. Seconds at best, but that would be enough. He tore open the backpack, pulled out his dual-filter gas mask, and slapped it on while the cart continue to wobble, on the brink of toppling. Silver circuitry remade the mask into a set of artificial gills, and Brent stood, ready to dive into the quickly filling tunnel…but then the flow weakened, stopped, and…

It wasn’t a murder attempt then.

Not trusting the lull of peaceful silence, his respirator continued to hiss as he hopped out of the cart, sloshing waist deep in chilling seawater, the waterproof nature of his pants meaningless when submerged.

β€œRoll call,” he said down the tunnel, β€œWho's still kicking? End Transmission.”

A flood was still a flood, and he doubted those top-side were looking peachy, but for now...there was so little he could do. Stick with those he could reach. Cut his losses today, at least.
Eye of the Storm

Brent | Marcus | Ernie
Siena | Emma | Lily

A Collab by @ERode@Papitan@Kyrisse@banjoanjo@Chasers115@Diggerton


Brent | Siena | Ernie

A Mistake by: @banjoanjo@PapiTan@ERode


Everything fell apart before they had fully materialized, two bodies tumbling and striking the smoking, sizzling floor the instant the effects of teleportation had worn off. Underprepared. Always underprepared. Like toy soldiers they tumbled down, bouncing against objects, flashes of pain sprouting as arms instinctively raised, head naturally tucking inwards until the backbone struck the corner of the table. Sunburst and starburst, agony that numbed too quickly like a firework that disappeared, scorching a thoughtless afterimage as cowardly words drowned themselves in the echoing aftermath. And then the boom-boom of his heart, drowning out the numbing rain splattering against his helmet. Waterproof. Goggles were waterproof and floated too. A miniature Ark when God drowned out the world, unleashing the reservoirs of the deep. Gotta prepare. A pair. No, just George. He envisioned moving, abdominal muscles pulling himself upwards, fresh numbness like too much aesthetic causing him no pain and only regrets. Wisdom teeth were still there, digging into the baby molars torn out. He wanted to taste them. No. His legs had to go first. Focus. The big toe. Twitch the big toe. But it was more sandy numbness, nothing working like it was supposed to. Should have prepared better. Shouldn’t have wasted his time. Not with relationships. Requests forms. He kept forgetting, kept putting it off, but if they could move things from DC to Balled Island, then they could do it with the USA of East. Brent rolled his eyes. More regrets, piling up like a town of twitching corpses. This was better than that. He still had his upper body. Could crawl? But would crawling let him dodge? Just crawl anyways. Worms and humans alike crawled. People who didn’t prepare for everything ahead of time, who didn’t even come to a dangerous place armed to the teeth, could just crawl. Silver lightning ran down his legs, sparking uselessly when he lost focus an instant later. Invertebrate. That’s what he was. That’s what you’ll always be. Pushing shit in and pushing shit out at the same steady rate, the slightest tinge of moistness dying his lower torso as a wonderfully personal stench erupted. He was losing control. He never had control. Just impulses that he followed without meeting the proper criteria. DPS check? Not high enough. Rarity check? Not high enough. Heal check? Not high enough. All that versatility meant nothing if he didn’t have plans upon plans, if it was ruined just with an injury like this. All those skills, wasted with a singular, shitty suggestion. Ah, good time to give up, right? Suicide missions all around, and Marco and Emerson and Chloe and Danielle and Maria and Jesse and Eun and and and. Disconnected and discovered and this illusion. He laughed and he got sent seven feet down the smooth hallway like an amusement park ride he didn’t know he signed up for and everything span and spun and spoon while hiccups hiccupped his cup. Dishes were still there. Clean the sink as well. Sink? No, ink everywhere, a soggy mess jammed down his throat as colors span and chest compressed. Depressed. Unpressed? Not a word. Not a privilege. Right. It was not a right. Everything was wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong crosses and xes and red marks everywhere, bludgeoning him with imperfections as it continued to decay, stale cookies mixing into a slurry of milk and crumbs. Something had to be done and he could do nothing. Only chatterboxes infected with opinions and memes, regurgitating the virus and swallowing the infection.
He was there to save someone.
But that someone didn’t matter.
He was there to kill someone.
But that someone didn’t matter.
So if it wasn’t save, and it wasn’t kill, then what was it?
It was…
Sour drops for rewards, cyanide drops for punishments, when they masticated both and spat out both because they didn’t want either, since the elusive third was universally better and molecularly worse and yet they never got it at all when spirits flew at the speed of light but clouds were standstill guardians that consumed it all with vaporous stomachs that only grew and grew until they spewed everything out in transparent music notes over broken ceilings so they could shower.

The unkind delusion was still missing pieces, a feverish morning daze in light that was still more like night, amethyst eyes boring intensely upon fleshy appendages that were better off amputated.
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