Festive

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

_{St. Louis, Missouri - December 7^th, 2016}

The cold weather in these times had been no comfort to Immanuel as his boots stepped down upon the snow-filled yard of the Golsons. There was no departure party, not a single soul from within the Golson house dared see the boy off back onto his journey with the system. Yet, in such a moment, he was greeted with the same sight his eyes had bore witness to dozens of times. That lady, God, that fucking lady. A woman whose mouth spouted naught but futile promises of a hint, a small crack in the rock in which a beam of light was supposed to shine through, of a normal life for him, and erroneous claims that each house devoid of a single ounce of compassion would be better than the rest.

Immanuel gripped his possessions tighter than he had before as he approached the gray Civic he had known so well. He skipped past whatever planned words Lorraine had to spew into his mind, opening the Civic door for what he knew wouldn’t be the last time, shoving but only a single bookbag laden with all his possessions in the seat next to his own. An all too familiar experience as he watched the likes of his social worker cross around the car to enter the driver's seat. His head pressed against frosted glass, his last sight of the home in which he had just exited obscured by fog that covered the window as his breath laid upon it. He hadn’t but the slimmest chance of hope they’d keep him while he lived within those walls. A family but so different from the ones he had lived with before, ones so normal that in his mind it only made sense they wouldn’t want to keep an outlier, a disturbance to the cushy lives they thrived in. He was privy to the arguments they spewed under the cover of moonlight over his place in the home. A unanimous agreement that the teen was not the child they were looking for. Maybe if he was happier, maybe if he talked more, maybe if he didn’t push them away, maybe if he fit within their rose-tinted view of life he would still have a warm bed to lie his head at night.

”For what it’s worth, Immanuel, I’m sorry.” Lorraine’s voice broke through the wall of silence that had been erected between them throughout the length of the car ride. Noise for unwilling ears, Immanuel’s mouth stayed closed as he heard her speak. He didn’t want to hear her pitty-laced voice within his mind, he had no desire nor yearning for the sympathy she threw his way. She had only been one in a line of caseworkers assigned to him and yet the experience had been the same each and every time. He’d be placed in a home, they’d find some reason or another to drop him, and then he’d be dragged off to another home for the cycle to repeat again.

”Are you hungry? I’m not sure if you had lunch yet, but I am starving. There’s this good dinner near the office where we could pick up something if you want?”

”Sounds good.”

The ride continued on in the absence of words from both of them as the last words were uttered from Immanuel’s mouth. Although his gripes with the woman never evaporated, deep within his mind, he did acknowledge that she tried. That through her actions may have been in vain, she had been the only one who had truly fought for him, the only one who battled against inefficiencies and fallibilities of the Missouri Department of Social Services for his sake. And as the Civic turned into a parking spot in the out-of-place-looking diner, Lorraine turned her head back to look at the boy behind her.

”I know I preach a lot of big talk to you, Immanuel, and I know a lot of the time my words don’t always seem to come true. But, I made a promise to you, a promise that I will help you for as long as I am your case worker. And kid, I don’t plan on giving up on you. There is a home out there for you, I know it.”

Naught but a scoff left Immanuel’s lips as he stared at the woman before him, the words dropped out of his mouth as the boy looked away to unbuckle his seatbelt.

”You’re a funny lady.”

---

_{Location: The Beach - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean}

Human #5.021: Home

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_{Interaction(s): Ecplise}

Previously: Hard Times

Home? Immanuel was the last one who should spout words about a home.

For most of his life, he had no concept of a home. His home was the bag that he slung across his back every time he swapped fosters, his home stood within the words of his journal locked for only his eyes to bear witness. His home lay within himself, for the most part. In the years prior that sentiment held no truer, but during the days present he couldn’t help but realize his home was more. His home wasn’t a place, it bore no allegiance to a flag nor the land in which he stood upon, it was more than that upon which he owned, and it took form in those in which he came to hold bonds stronger than that of surface words and artificial emotions. The two in which he sat beside today, the nine others in which he sat beside prior. They were his home.

It wasn’t P.R.C.U.

The two souls who saw it fit to take in a child whose heart had become jaded and malformed through years under the wicked hands of homes the system deemed eligible to care for the likes of a child. And the young woman fresh out of university who put her all into getting Immanuel out of the system when he was but a wee boy and when his other caseworkers didn’t. They were his home.

It wasn’t St. Louis either.

Eclipse was his home. The Blaylocks were his home.

Yet in such a moment his mind could not find the connection to the essence of either. Both Cleo and Lucas were off in their own worlds despite being right on Earth beside him, and even Immanuel couldn’t help but feel as though his own feet were off the ground. As if he was free-floating in a vacuum not bound by anything, his mind ran amuck as the words of those few remaining souls of Blackjack, broken down to their last wits and spirit, filled his cranium along with sounds of nature’s movement beneath the likes of a pitiful group that they stood as. Harper, the one he had come to know soon after she had spoken about his own words, only seemed to express a lamentation of a home. A home that had changed for her, and one he assumed had changed for the rest. One which had come to ruin, now beneath the unforgiving grip of the Canadian government, and the covetous nature of the Foundation, which seemed to grasp onto as many students as they could.

He listened to all. The impartial listener. Cleo spoke next, her words unsure hidden behind that of a forlorn whisper out into the air. The talk of choices beyond the bounds of this night filled his ears like no other. The sound of feet shifting upon the likes of unsteady sand as two walked away, brother taking a shot at brother, the approach of another of which he had no knowledge of, the talk of the dead and lost of a week prior and bygone days spewed like vile forth from the mouth of one who he could tell hosted an eternal flame of rage within his soul during this very moment. Both of his senses saw the breakdown of Cleo and her retreat away. Now was the perfect time to leave, Immanuel knew he held no merit to be involved in the degradation of this conversation. For a night entrenched in the ideal of being a final, a last remembrance of their time upon these shores and the hours within the halls of the place behind them had devolved to that malice against one’s own comrade. If the true concept of a home is where you are surrounded by the people by which you hold closest, Blackjack had seemed to have lost theirs the night of the dance, only reinforced by voices of now. Fragmented, disjointed, on the eve of their twilight.

It was getting loud, too loud. It was at this moment he could see why Cleo left, he couldn’t imagine the angst and resentment that radiated out into the area. Before Immanuel had the chance to fully gather all that he had left, felt his body lifted up by that of Lucas’ arm.

“Can I miss your home too? Mine are full of ghosts now.”

”My home will always be open to you, Lucas.” Immanuel slipped his hand down to pick up the weight of his bag, a feeling laced with familiarity washed over his body as the bag slipped around his shoulder, but this time there was no gray Civic waiting on the street to pick him up. ”She doesn’t look like she’s doing too hot though.” Immanuel muttered, his eyes shifted in the direction of Cleo as he witnessed her all by her lonesome. While he got but the faintest idea of what she could’ve felt, he couldn’t begin to imagine the emotions of all those at once bombarding her in tandem with her own. A night unsuited to be their last, to be anyone’s last was a thought that floated across his mindscape as he trekked his way across the shoreline with Lucas beside him.

For as short as the night was, Immanuel could tell it was going to be a long one.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

---

_{Location: The Beach - Dundas Island, Pacific Ocean}

Human #5.003: Hard Times

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_{Interaction(s): Nil}

Previously: Emergency

The pen saddled midst the creases of his digits waned ‘neath forced vested onto it as Immanuel scratched in a script but nearly only he could see as legible in the leather bound book before him. The book was one where years traveling in the possession filled trash bags from hell-hole to hell-hole and under the stress of writing upon non-solid surfaces had shown prominently upon distressed leather. Streaks of discolored patches lined across the binding of the notebook akin to scars across one's skin, and cracks ripped across the spine where haphazardly covered with a strip of tape through Immanuel’s hasty repairs in the past. The thick pages laced with the memories of bygone days, pages parted with the plastic squares of photos from days past, and the old crumpled papers of forlorn poems wrought with the remnants of a distrust enveloped soul of a self that partially remained in the man who sat today upon the shores of the island.

Not a word had been spoken, not a thought had been whispered from the lips upon his face as his eyes stood in a trance with the words of slightly smudged ink upon the old pages. From the moment the Eclipse made their appearance upon dreary shores for but their last hours upon the island, Immanuel had sought the lonely solace he had placed into the book from its years in his possession. Past the unsteadiness and the scribble of signs barely registered as handwriting was all that his mind had stored behind the lock-down he had equipped in the depths of his consciousness. The words flew freely from ball-point as if they were spoken from his own lips. A literary manifestation of all those thoughts he had held from all but himself, the feelings he had shut out the others from watching him go through. The pages within such a book abound the tears many a foster parents had shut down with being an action unbefitting of a man.

As his pen slid across the page so did that of his thought slide from the fringes of his mind, even as his ears stood blasted with the force of the fire crackling before him, soft grinding of the sand beneath the shifting bodies of all those around, and even choked cries of the remaining populace, the sounds of the week prior had never left his mind. Upon the forefront of all that was thought by the mind of Immanuel Blaylock was the ever-constant reminder of the poor soul whose body was ripped asunder by the likes of the monster that had been but the fine straw that brought the school to ruin. Through all the noise his mind harped upon and that threatened his mind liken to a predator on the prowl, was that of the tearing of flesh. Was that of one’s tendons being stretched to the maximum and snapped like a rubber band between one's parting fingers. Was that of the squirting of blood sputtering out of veins once hidden beneath the safe haven of skin. Was that the squishing and splattering of viscera upon the floor. Although all these sounds plagued and ravaged his mind like no other sound that he had recognized entered his ear, the unforgettable sound of the heart's droning drum beating out its final symphony of life, the fadeout of what one was and would ever be in but a single moment. But a sound left a brand upon his brain matter, hot and fresh despite the time that had flown by in but a blink.

Upon the new page he had flipped to after filling the previous one with his rambling stream of thought, all Immanuel could jot down for the week of his life lost to catatonia and auto-pilot was, I should’ve used the symbol earlier. Past the words that assaulted his mind flashed the wide-eyed face of Cleo, whose hands had shaken widely as she signed the symbol across her chest as a desperate sign to leave. The loss in her quiet tone, heard above all others as she stood before her in that moment, spread across his mind and tightened the knot he had held within his gut. The image of that of Lucas’s flashed from the archives of his memory, the look upon his compatriots' face was on that, in a much similar vein to that of Cleo’s, was stuck to him. He could only imagine the newfound memories attached to such a place that Lucas had replayed out within the expanse of his mind all over again. Immanuel was supposed to be the one who led them through this final school year, the one that kept the three together through the tribulations of each other member dropping out like flies. But in the end, all that Immanuel caused for the two he considered his closest friends and final groupmates, was a night which shall never leave their minds for as long as they continue to walk upon this plane of existence.

Before the words within his mind had the chance to fully form a sentence upon the paper, the cheap plastic pen held finally snapped in beneath the pressure he forced upon it. With a crack, the pen lay upon the sand surface beside him three distinct pieces which he scooped within an empty pocket laden on the side of the bookback sat beside him. From the nether regions of his pants pocket, Immanuel revealed a set of string photos from the photo booth a week prior. The plastic was crumpled and folded in its structure but the joy upon their faces still stood evident through the marring. Immanuel dropped the strip within the page of the notebook in which his writing was ended before shutting the book and rebinding the locking strap for its last time upon Dundas Island.

As he stuffed the book away within the space of his back, Immanuel turned back those he had spent his time at what once was this school alongside. People of memory he shan't forget. And in but a whisper he uttered,

”I think… I think I miss my home.”

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

---

_{Location: Senior Dance, ARC Center - PRCU}

Dance Monkey #4.091: Emergency

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_{Interaction(s): Cleo Boyd @spicykvnt}

Previously: Turn it off

One does not fear the wave until they feel the water hit.

Immanuel’s hands held a tight grip upon the porcelain before him, he felt the weight of the world sink his head beneath the water once again as it had reached its maximum. The music could not have been louder as it drowned out the thoughts in his brain and the rest of the planet at large. But there, within the consistent cacophony of all that exists bombarding his ears, there was something different. A noise that defied the expected nature one would expect from within a dance such as the one he endured in the present. One in which despite his experience he could not zero in on, a noise which encompassed what one would imagine from the likes of a bird but to a magnitude he could tell was much larger than the avian body.

He tried to push the noise away, to drown it out with the rest of the world, maybe the drinks had finally started to intoxicate his mind. Immanuel looked into the mirror once more, and with but a final pat down of his clothes and single buttoning upon his jacket, the man made his way back upon the dance floor. Once again taking in the force of the noise many human bodies can produce as he slithered his way back through the boisterous crowd of partygoers. Although the forefront of his mind was plagued with ever-present exhaustion the party burdened upon his psyche, the back far reaches of his consciousness could not drop the noise he heard while bunkered within the bathroom. It seemed to follow him, even as he made his way onto the fringes of the dance floor it was there, the initial low flapping of wings grew as what he could only interpret as it approaching the A.R.C. from whatever far bounds it took off from. It was too loud to match the likeness of anything he had heard in his time, and as those wings reached their peak above the A.R.C., Immanuel could only wonder, what the hell is that nois–

Before but a thought was given the freedom to fully form, his world had been shaken leaving his legs to stumble as a noise likened to a thunderous clap of lightning struck the building in which he stood. This time he was not the only one to be affected by such a noise, the deafening music had come to a stop along with the loud voices of the senior class as every eye was directed toward the noise. Immanuel's own eyes pinpointed the source as he watched as if the claws of a demon had ripped the metal walls of the building he occupied. His ears heard the pitiful cries of the steel wall screeching and squealing beneath the thing's grasp, this hiss of live wires severed and snapping of electrical currents going off followed in its wake. ”What the fuck!” The words dropped from his mouth almost instinctually in but a whisper. The fleeting moment of silence in the crowd was short-lived bliss as the screams of abject terror filled every facet of his mind and every corner of the A.R.C.

Cleo. Lucas. Fuck!

Immanuel planted his feet firmly upon the ground, his eyes bore witness to whatever satan spawn climbed noisily through the hole it created upon the bounds of the A.R.C. He watched as the thing blew its crackling breath upon the exits he yearned to approach. Although noise from the speakers that blew music but mere moments ago brought him to his knees, the shouting and screaming from all those he had previously witnessed having one of the best nights in their waking lives was a new beast that ravaged his ears.

Why must have God forsaken them?

Immanuel clenched the fist he held at his side into a ball, his cochlear hairs irritated at the sound of grinding enamel upon enamel as teeth grit at his redirection of focus. Immanuel’s mind had shifted away from only hearing in a radius around him to that of seeking the voice of those none other than his teammates. His mind searched and waded through the sea of screeching that passed into his ears for but a hint of their voices. Immanuel’s mind scoured for the loud candor Cleo wore every day, he searched for her benign cadence against the overpowering majority as he forced his way through the crowd, elbowing and shoving his way through the rushing mass of students in a vain attempt to find them using his eyes as well. Immanuel felt the ever-familiar threat upon his mind on the horizon as once again he tried his best to zero in on his teammates' voices. His ears filtered through dozens of shouting voices for that of Lucas’s rough, often confused-sounding cadence. Although his search stood as mighty in its effort the results it provided were less than of use to him.

The terror that filled his ears was too loud and to similar to search for them within. Although he could pick their voices out from betwixt the screams, he could not tell the difference between the bellows. He couldn’t seem to find a solid stream of thought as he pushed his way through to the table in which they had sat, finding naught but a scene surrounded by felled chairs and spilled cups. Immanuel stood trapped in the rushing wave of students attempting to travel away from the thing as he tried to push his way back into the eye of the storm. Immanuel was not going to leave a single one of them behind, even if it meant he had to push near that thing. While his eyes possessed the fortune of God to not lay witness to horrors spurred from the creature born of the womb of a devil, his ears were once again not afforded such a luxury. Utterances spouted from the maw of the creature were akin to esoteric shouts against his mind, as his body pushed against the flow of terrified students. The squelching sound of blood squirting free and the elastic snap of each muscle fiber tearing and snapping off a shattered bone only made his efforts into the crowd harsher and harsher in his advancement. With trembling hands, he made his way through the students, the effort to continue his ultimately futile advance propped up by the fact Lucas and Cleo could be among the ones trapped in the back. His footing while once strong in his stride slightly faltered as he heard the utter massacre ahead. Sound of bone crushing and collapsing beneath the skin, the muscle being ripped from muscle, the fibers snapping lose in exposed stumps where body parts once lay, the ripping of skin tearing as that monster eviscerated the people before it, the mortality beckoning sound of a heart beating out its last drum, and synapses snapping out their last thought as one’s life enters the great unknown marred his ears in a gutter symphony to an audience of but one.

Somewhere within the A.R.C. gunshots rang out, and the echo cast right into his ears as Immanuel felt a tremble in his knees. The same ears rang with a ferocity not yet seen, but yet he pushed on. His head burned with the pain like a bullet had hit him instead of what he assumed it had been aimed at. A fiery cast of embers seared his mind like a youngster had lit off a firework within it. And yet he grit his teeth and continued. Immanuel continued even through the exasperated scream that made his ears ring just a bit louder, he could feel the pain in the scream, and although he did not possess a set of powers like Cleo the sorrow still rang loud in the lamentation of the woman. But finally, even through the shilling sound of screeches ringing throughout the A.R.C., the brutality of whatever the thing was slaying his fellow man, and the ringing that plagued his ears. He caught it. Through the static he caught but a glimpse of Cleo’s voice seeping through the noise. It was low and lasted for but a second in the continuum of time, yet in that moment he caught the grasp that he was trudging in the right direction.

With a newfound pump of adrenaline right into his body, Immanuel pushed his body through the running mass. His hands shoved those preventing his advance in the direction in which they were going before he finally emerged from the mass on the other side. The sight before his eye was one he wished to burn from his memory, the butchery both his senses had experienced left a knot in his stomach more gut-wrenching than any other he had felt. His eyes were cursed with the sight of bloodshed and carnage left in the wake of the thing before him, and before the Gods had the chance to take his soul as well that night the creature was absorbed into a hole that burst forth behind it as well as a girl it had gripped onto in it’s exit.

Immanuel fully took in the scene of abject chaos before noticing that of Cleo off to the side of where he stood. In but a moment he ran to her side and crouched down right beside her, embracing Cleo into a hug as the adrenaline only slightly subsiding from his body now that he knew she was safe, but as for Lucas his mind still ran rampant searching for the boy as he looked around the scene. ”Oh God, Cleo, are you alright?” His words stumbled if only for but a second as he still attempted to portray the facade of strength he wore, the same facade that stopped Immanuel from giving the sign when he had felt overwhelmed before the bathroom, the same one that kept them exactly within this mess. ”Have you seen Lucas? I haven’t seen him… I didn’t hear him…” Immanuel released her from the embrace, stopping his slightly trembling hands. The words from his mouth were but a bit faster than his normal speech, a bit louder than how he usually was.

And as the whole room seemed to be laden with a cover of silence for the rest, the world had never stopped singing within his ears.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

---

The world is nothing without sound.

What is sound? Sound is a vibration within the air, a propagating force that permeates through all states of matter. A force that ravages the ears of the listener, and can captivate one within a single second. Sound will never leave you, no matter where you, no matter where you turn, no matter what you do. There will always be sound for however long one stands among their fellow man in this earthly plane we all call a home.

In spite of this fact, many yearn for the quick peace of silence. To be released into the seemingly safe and inviting grasp of silence is an experience of which many crave with a never-ending voracity. A hunger for nothing, to be sat in a vacuum where sound couldn’t dare travel. For many, it’s an escapism from the trials of life, but for Immanuel, it shall never come. Although true silence is unobtainable for the human ear bar the deaf, Immanuel only yearns to lay in comfort in a warm embrace of quiet, if only for but a mere blip in his time.

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_{Location: Off the beaten path - Hiking Trails, Dundas Island}

Dance Monkey #4.063: Turn it off

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_{Interaction(s): Nil}

Previously: Turn The Lights Down Low

One’s body shall only endure so much strain.

Strain was but only a single way to put it. Behind his eyes, a war was waged upon the forefront of his mind. A battlefield permeated with the searing pain brought forth by the eternal hell fire that raged upon his nerves. A throbbing, chronic disturbance which to the bearer felt his head akin to that of a pipe about to burst. Every second of his waking existence was accosted by a feeling which could only be lightly described as a knife stabbing area of highly concentrated nerve endings over, and over again without a second of reprieve. A punishment one would imagine only those cast into the deepest pits of a hellish realm would have such an agonizing displeasure to experience. A pain a masochist themselves would wince under threat of.

Immanuel’s eyelids stood stamped shut, his nowhere but upon his temples, rubbing circles around such a part of his head in a fallible attempt to curb the ripping within his head for but a second. Yet as he always knew, no such amnesty came. One of his hands only moved away from the position it held when the bartender sat before him the liquor his mind had yearned for at the moment. He had told the likes of Cleo and Lucas he was going to the bar for a drink yet failed to mention how long it would take him. However, much like his feeble actions of prior the burn that slid down the back of his throat did little to pardon him of the punishment bestowed upon him from procreation. Immanuel’s fingers held a grip akin to no other upon the glass within his hand, tilting the container upwards to allow the last bit of distilled poison to drop into his mouth. In but a second the glass was now back upon the surface of the bar, Immanuel pushed it back over to the bartender with his free hand. ”Are you alright?”

A scoff emanated from his lips, one of his eyes openning to look up at the bartender. Although the utterance from the barkeep was one likely only heard by the two, modulation of his words pierced his eardrums like a mere shout. ”Oh man, I can’t ever tell you I’ve been better than this.” The words fell from his mouth dryly and low, unlikely the intended target ever heard his little mumbling. Immanuel pushed his body off the counter, his shoes planted firmly on the ground as his hand dug into the suit jacket he had received off the bare seat besides where he sat to reveal a twenty from the pocket, sliding it across the counter to the bartender. ”Enjoy the tip.”

With a solitary nod to the barkeep from a head waging its own internal war against itself, Immanuel took off into the crowd. Humanity was a species that knew naught if but noise. The human body was a machine that ran louder with excitement. His wading through the sure inebriated crowd was laced with the evident pounding of hearts from each body he passed, small rustling of fabric threads against each that of another was a sound that pervaded the space as bodies danced against bodies and as shouldered brushed in the sea of people. The hefty breathing of those exhausted from their time upon the dance floor surrounded him throughout his shuffle. The loud voices of gibberish conversations, whispers, or sultry utterances spoken from the mouth of a lover were what was exposed to his hyper-sensitive eardrums. Forlorn secrets spouted by those around him seemed to seep through his waning wall of concentration as he tracked his way to the lavatory.

It was during times such as these he cursed the two people unknown to the likes of himself who struck him with such a curse disguised as a “superpower” he would see in the comics he read as but a wee child. In the hours of the night, Immanuel desired for but one person to truly know what was heard by his ears. To imagine being saddled with such a noise of a Lovecraftian caliber is akin to one imagining the pure and utter silence in which those of the deaf endure, and the absolute absences of all sight the blind must deal with; the brain of one simply cannot. Even as Immanuel broke free of the pull of the crowd and stalked toward the bathroom the noise had yet to lessen. With a push of the metal door and a step within the room, not even the walls could shield him from its ever-presentness. The lavatory had but one other man within its confines but who left not too soon after Immanuel entered. His hands with a slight hint of tremble grasped into a fist as Immanuel looked down upon them. His brown eyes met its match as he stared himself in the face in the mirror. Several beads of sweat lay scattered around his face, his expression contorted into that grimace. The man forced his back into that of a neutral one before starting the cold water on the tap.

Immanuel took a solitary breath before putting his head down before the water, using both his hands to douse his face. His mind tried with his mightiest effort to focus his hearing on simply only the running water. As the sound of the stream entered his ears he felt but a tiny bit of a reprieve until it all came back to him. It started first with small slips of the music sprouting until it finally broke through the wall, the voices came next in a whirlwind of sounds as the vibrations pelted his ears. ”FUCK!” His fist came down upon the porcelain surface at the failure to achieve more than a second of slight peace. Immanuel’s head turned as he heard footsteps approach the door of the bathroom, each louder in volume. With the same hand, now stinging slightly from the impact, he flipped the hand to the sink off. Quick in his pace, Immanuel stumbled back into the last stall down.

The mind Immanuel was provided ran at a million thoughts a minute, he couldn’t differentiate between the sound of his own internal monologue and the voices of the group that had just entered the bathroom, Hell, even between the voices of all those beyond the walls of this room. Why must he be the one to suffer such an impediment, what made him so unlucky? It was a blessing and curse, while yes he could hear everything, Immanuel could everything. The power he held was one he simply wanted one day to truly be able to master. To have control of his own situation was the freedom he yearned for. But all he could think right now was, why was it so fucking loud. His hands moved to his face covering his eyes with quickness before the light could make his head burn any fiercer. Immanuel sat down upon the top of the toilet seat leaning back against the wall as he exhaled, the noise poured in his ears without mercy, assaulting his cochlear hairs with a force that had only been matched but a few times throughout his life. It was too much. Why was it so goddamn LOUD.

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SILENCE!

His body moved almost automatically, fishing the sleek black wrist contraception from within his pants pocket to around his wrist. And in but merely a second, the sound that attacked his brain relentlessly had turned into but a muffle within his brain. For the first time in several months, he could hear his own thoughts ring out louder than the noises from the rest of the world. A quiet, lonely reprieve in his mind, accompanied with a breath he felt like he had never had the chance to take before, like his head had emerged from the water after sinking in the depths. It had been a while since he had heard the world go muffled, an odd experience to endure from a man who left nothing unheard. The limiter could only do so much the curb the effects of his powers. The whole world kept chanting its cacophonous record of noises one would rather not hear but to Immanuel, it was a lower, more muted volume. While he could still hear the sounds that permeated his ears now were naught but unintelligible junk, whereas before he could partially make out but a hint of semblance of what he was hearing, now nothing was discernible.

Immanuel placed his hands upon the railing on the side wall of the stall to prop himself up. The war burning within his head began to lessen just as the volume had done. He had achieved a victory, but in the end, it lay as but a pyrrhic one. A pitiful action in a moment of disparity. He had to be stronger than this, Immanuel had to be better than this. Reliance on such a piece of technology, a crutch, would not help one overcome the problems in which they possessed. Immanuel wanted to live with himself, with his own power, not shackled by the quick release provided by the likes of the limiter or inhibitor. He had been taught better than such. In a way the action hung upon his shoulders like a weight, there went his months-long streak, swirling down the drain like the water he had filled up in the sink earlier.

A soft sigh escaped the confines of his lips as he exited the stall, standing before the mirror he had stood but minutes before. His face stood blank in his own presence. The bathroom was now empty once again, it was but Immanuel left alone in the room, and for this one time with his own thoughts. His eyes locked in line with the reflection of them standing before him in the mirror as he felt the last bit of his headache leave from behind his eyes. Starting the water once again, Immanuel put back on the olive-colored suit jacket he held in his hand while he trained his focus on the water. After a process of patting down his outfit and straightening out parts, he once again looked deep into the mirror. While a reflection of his current self, Immanuel could only see the flaws within his character. You can do better than this. The words were shouted across his mindscape as he pulled the band from his wrist.

And in like the first time he received his powers, it all came flooding in like a raging tsunami upon coastal shores. However, this time, unlike that unprepared little boy he was years prior, he was ready for the waves. After all, he had a team to get back, even if it was just for this last night.

---

---

Shadowstrike: The Awakening

Shadowstrike: The Awakening

Sorry I originally posted this I just looked up ai generated dead bodies and it popped up and I didn’t think it was the holocaust victims because I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to offend anyone

@Chronic

WHAT.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

_{LOCATION(s): Amistad, Texas}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

" G H O S T R I D E R S I N T H E S K Y "
” G H O S T R I D E R S I N T H E S K Y "

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Although those believe that the closing of their weary eyes from a day of naught but strenuous work upon the frontier would give one a reprieve from pain, this whispered utterance of peace is yet but a fallacy. Guillermo knew these lies likely better than no man had before him. This land has become his lifeline, a place in which his survival depends upon the unforgiving dice roll of nature which gambled away the life of many of his compatriot travelers along this journey. And if the fight beneath the watchful eye of the moon foretold his precarious luck, the nights beyond the one in which he was currently enduring were laden with the curses a supposed almighty above had dared to strike down upon the land as a punishment for those of the Americas.

Guillermo’s hands held a tight grip upon the reins for Ascuas as he now rode off through the night. Sleeping had been a failed endeavor for all but the horse, the results of the scuffle that ruined his chances for but a few hours of sleep lay slung among the rest of his pack behind him upon Ascuas’ hind. The night was still young and the moon lay smack dab in the center of the vast expanse of the sky betwixt brilliant stars that permeated the void Guillermo looked up into. While the sky stood empty the land in which he traveled was in sharp contrast. Ascuas’ hooves stomped and crushed the ground below as she trotted upon the sandy soil laden around them, weaving between odd prickly pear and bush upon the path. Almost every day came with a new path back to society, although fewer new paths arose as the landscape became one that was familiar to him, the features and quicks that laden the fullness of this little piece of the frontier had been absorbed into the mind of Guillermo.

The silence of the night had persisted long throughout the path, only the whistle of the wind cutting through the bushes and over the ridges of the neighboring hills dared enter his ears. Not a single squeal from even an armadillo was heard as he continued on, his ears took in only that of which he was surrounded immediately by; the smushing of dirt beneath the feet of his animals, the slow, laboring breaths he exhaled through the bandana around his faces, rustling of his pack as it swayed from side to side with the movement of the horse. Thus was but an odd night in a line of many. There was only a break in this monotony with the soft crack of running water somewhere in his vicinity. It was a stream he had visited all too often when the sandpaper feeling tortured the back of his neck, begging for the least bit of hydration. Ascuas trotted on faster in his pace at the sound of water, for an old man his senses still stayed as sharp as in his prime days. And beneath the darkness of the absence of the sun, the old creek, a small tributary of the great Rio Grande off yonder, came into plain view.

Creek itself had been nothing special, one in which a traveler may stop if in dire need of the nourishing grace of water. A bed of flowing water if not about three heads of cattle wide at Guillermo’s eyeballed estimation, it was one in which he could travel right across on his horse. In but a few seconds he was off the horse, allowing the aged stallion a chance to fulfill his yearning for such water as well. Guillermo stretched out his body before approaching the creek in his own right, his hands felt the frigid temperature of the water as he scooped a bit upon his now exposed face. The water ran down his tanned skin reprieving him if for only a moment from the stresses he had experienced throughout the day. His hands finally dipped back in once again but not for the purpose of moments prior but for drinking. He brought the cool bit of water grasped between his interlaced fingers up before downing what hadn’t fallen through the cracks. And in but a second he had been healed from the sandpaper throat he sported. His body felt better like a second wind had been blown into him, reinvigorated from the energy he had lost from the fight, like a day had arrived on the horizon for him.

The break for the water was one that was needed yet could not last forever, within only minutes Guillermo had been back upon his horse and set back onto the path to the town of Amistad, partially part of the reason he had left the spot in which he occupied earlier, bar the tango with the spawn of Satan incident. While the two had never formally spoken words between each other besides the ordering of drinks, McReily and Guillermo had a sense of mutual respect towards each other, or so Guillermo had believed. Through all this traveling he had hoped to catch a glass before the bar had closed and a place to lay his head with at least a shred of protection. Guillermo hated staying within town limits for the night, although the threat of the Sheriff was on the list of his concerns, the newfound presence of Ranger Mellon had become one at the top of such list. He was a man who knew too much, and one who had seen too much, he’d put good dollars on the bet that Mellon had seen his face before on the Texas Rangers wanted board. The years had certainly changed his face but hidden behind the gruff lay a face that held onto the memories of days forgone, one he hoped Mellon would never look too closely at.

As Guillermo rode through the night approaching closer to the town, his pace slow but steady, he noticed far off in the distance the light shining through the dark. One which bobbed up and down as it swayed to the rhythm of the horse its rider held it on. He couldn’t recognize the face as the person drew closer but in his experience, this was nothing if not a dark sign.

”Qué maldición…”

I need rp advice.

<Snipped quote>

1. the year is 2098, and technology is actually almost the same, except the world is way too overpopulated, so the organization thought, "hey, if we wipe out one half of the world, the other half will have everything they'll ever need!" THANOS! so they attack the americas.

2. it was kind of a shadow organization that had holds in almost every major government, so it just sent someone to get the bomb job then launch.

3. if you were on the surface, the radiation would overdose and kill you. so you have to hide. plus, it's not instantaneous. it takes at least a month.

4.unintended

5. the organization plans to finish them off because they know the truth about how the organization fired on them. ( they discover it on their journey. ) You see, the organization used used America's own bombs against itself, so it looked like suicide. If the truth got out, there would be riots, and the organization would collapse.

@Sky Blue

That one went right over your head, my dude...

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

_{LOCATION(s): Beyond the town limits, Amistad, Texas}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

" T H E D E V I L ‘ S H O U R "
" T H E D E V I L ‘ S H O U R "

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Late May, 1888

The night was always loud.

In the wee hours of the night within the void colored sky speckled with the white myriad of small stars laden in the vast emptiness lay the devil’s moon shining its most wicked semblance of light upon the west. Upon these lands hidden in the dark crevices between the weathered rocks, and among the cacti and weeds that engulf the plains houses creatures unknown to the passing man, only realized through the gutter cacophony of cawing and shambling feel of small critters in tandem with the slow stalking shuffle performed by larger beast whose growl would shock even the common man.

But tonight? Everything was silent.

One was to never be met with silence on the frontier, nature’s unending symphony of night had been felled. The air stoked the little flame burning out upon the rocky ground and stood stagnant all around, the only noise that could be heard upon the vastness of this land was the crackling pops of the flame that lay at Guillermo's feet and low breathing as he released air from his lungs. Tonight had been one of many nights in which the west stood still, frozen in place as if time had simply stopped even the chirps of the crickets beneath the moon had ceased to be vocalized. Guillermo’s back lay propped against the back of a horse which he’d been with his whole life. Ascuas was his name, an Andalusian horse of a light brown mane which as time flies by has grown light in color. A beaut of a horse that has been glued to his side since the day he stole the stallion from under the nose of his father’s estate; the two privileged beings riding into the sunset together. Guillermo's hand rubbed the side of the horse’s back softly, for as stubborn as the thing has been throughout these twenty years he’d yet to leave his side, even through the trial and many wounds suffered by both they are naught if not bonded.

A solitary yawn escaped from the tips of Guillermo's lips, his hands gripping the knife he held on his belt, with his other hand smothering the pile of slightly burning embers with a couple of nearby stones and dirt, mixing up the ground with his knife to truly kill the fire. ”¡Jorge, ven!” On the other side of the fire, a dog, a type of sheepdog Guillermo had never come to learn the bread of trotted over. The youngest of all three beings by a number of years, he scratched the boy underneath his neck as the dog laid his body up against Guillermo. The ever-changing ways of these lands had been naught if not an ever-present force within all three of their lifetime, bundling up at night to ward off the nipping force of the cold night air against their skin. The wilderness had never treated them with an ounce of civility, a land of pure and utter chaos that lacked any shred of respect for the life it harbors within. A land that if there was a god it had long abandoned the West like a husband to a courtesan wife. And yet, in these lands fraught with nature's most unforgiving forces, Guillermo didn’t know what brought him out here when he was but a boy, and kept him upon these lands he now calls home. Was it his yearning to bask in the euphoria of glory? To have his name be known beyond that of his father’s? To be the man his father proclaimed he could never be? It was a cause he could not pinpoint, a hole in his mind he could not provide a solid answer to. Why did he leave to these lands, why did he never go back to San Diego? His mind drew naught but a blank on the existentialism of the query.

As his eyes drew heavy Guillermo slowly shut them, falling into the forgiving embrace of sleep as his only escape from the weary west. As his mind drifted into a land beyond human comprehension. However, a voice cut through his mind like a knife as he heard it.

”¡Jorge, ven!”

”¡qué chingados!” Goosebumps rose up across his skin as the older man recoiled off of his horse, like a second instinct Guillermo hands gripped the gun that had laid to his side. Jorge had perked up at the noise, moving to where Guillermo now stands, his gun pointed off into the darkness surrounding the three. The noise, the fucking noise, even Guillermo would admit it was a carbon copy of his voice, although laden with imperfections. What was it? It couldn’t be a man. Jorge stood by his side, his posture withdrawn as he growled off into the darkness. In the distance, hidden in the shadow of darkness he could hear it. Mumbling off in his voice recounting words he had spoken not hours prior, the legs of the thing shuffling around cover behind spots he could not see beneath the moon’s light. As the creature approached slowly but surely, Guillermo gripped his hold upon the pistol.

Guillermo shifted his eyes to Jorge as he watched the dog lunge out forward narrowly missing whatever passed between his maw as Guillermo felt the sharp pain of what felt like a rock pass against his leg. It was quick, too quick for the gun. The man took the knife from his hip once again as he felt the creature pass by his legs for another swipe, this time snagging a bit of his pants along with it. Jorge heeded no further restraint and jumped into the scuffle with the small creature, chasing it around the little area around where they had attempted to sleep before catching the thing in his jaw, cracking the neck of the little demon in one swift motion as he brought the carcass back to Guillermo. In his time out in the west he hadn’t seen many of these before; A small hare-looking thing of a bigger size with horns like those of a deer poking out the top of its dome, within his mind he had failed to remember the name of such a creature. It brought upon itself it’s own demise, the thing that had thought to make the two it’s own dinner would end up being tomorrow's breakfast. This little fight had curbed all Guillermo's hope for a few hours of sleep tonight, lest another try to come prey upon the three, alas there ain’t no rest for the wicked.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

_{LOCATION(s): Amistad, Texas}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

" T H E Q U E R Y "
” T H E Q U E R Y "

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Early April, 1888

The once barren streets naught but a few hours ago lay choked to the margins laden with tired and weary travelers leaving the safe confines of the Haven Inn wandered down the rock permeated dirt road. The surrounding chattering voices of the town residents setting up their shops beneath the early morning’s rising sun filled the wide streets of town over powering the forlorn whispers of the travelers. The days in Amistad had always started early since the foregone days as a measly trading outpost for the lost souls upon the Rio Grande; a town started upon the backs of tents and caravan cars converted into homes, and the blood, sweat, and tears of the travelers turned settlers whose hard work carved the paths the folk mingle upon below. The intersection that lay just beyond the window Jonathan Davis sat behind reminded him of what he got up for every morning, even in the disordered streets of morning Amistad, there was a spark in this town he had seen ever since his first arrival as a traveler himself. A town of a hopeful populace and almost boundless potential, the newfound boom in the town had shredded the schedule Jonathan has become adapted to as the newest mayor of the town, trapped in a constant state of early mornings and even later nights. The coffee in his cup swished around as he stirred in the solitary moment of personal silence he would have for the rest of his day, his hand slithering from his side to the bottle tucked in the depths of his desk. From his hand revealed an unmarked bottle of whiskey, encompassing the bottle worn from the ages, removing the cap as Jonathan spiked the little bit of coffee he had left with the booze. It was time to hit the ground running.

Before the idea of relocation from the window washed across Jonathan’s mind, an intemperate knock tapped against the thin wooden doors before him. ”Ya know the door’s unlocked for ya Malory." At the advent of the words spoken from his mouth, a small blond head popped her way into the room through the crack in the door. "Ah! Uh, one mister Pierre Masse is here to meet with you uncl- Mayor Davis. He says he’s from the governor, something about a letter too?" The mousey little blond squeaked as her eye’s peered over to her uncle. Jonathan gripped the sides of his mug a bit tighter, the sigh from his voice was audible as the man took the rest of his drink in one sip. The letter, Malory had mentioned, laid upon his desk from his reading the day prior, his hands slipped up beneath the cream colored paper, once again laying eyes upon what was foretold. If that damned governor thought he could come into his town, and disturb his people, and take advantage of his resources, he had another thing coming to him. "Thank ya Malory, ya tell ‘im to come up ‘ere now." Jonathan looked at his niece and gave her a soft nod, watching the girl retract from the doorway in which she stood.

Minutes felt to Jonathan like hours as he waited for Malory to return with Pierre. He wasn’t excited, hell, the last thing on his mind was excitement. His fingers tapped away at the desk he now sat in front of awaiting his unwanted guest. If this man really was who the letter claimed him to be then he held no power, and as much as Jonathan resisted the grubby self-serving hands of the governor upon his town, there was nothing he could. "Mayor, this is Mister Pierre Masse." a familiar voice chimed in from the now opened doorway, standing beside his niece a man Jonathan had seen but rarely around the town since his arrival, his recollection held nothing about the man save for his connection with the government. "Good mornin’ to ya, Mister Masse." Jonathan stood from his seat with an arm outstretched, taking Pierre’s hand into his own for a handshake. "Please, call me Pierre, Mayor Davis,"

“My pleasure, then ya can just call me John.”

With the drop of the handshake, Pierre took the seat before Jonathan as he too fell back into his seat. The two men, whose positions of powers stood at an imbalance, sat in each other's company in a moment of silence. Pierre’s eyes took a gander around the room in this moment, in this brevity he held witness to the maximalist wonder that stood around him, artifacts from all over took positions along the wall and among shelves decorating this slightly bigger than average room with history of the place it occupied. With his eyes refocused upon the man whose face stood as blank as a page, Pierre cleared his throat before speaking. "I was assured you know why I am here? I am sure the governor made is explicitly clea-"

"Yer Cajun, are ya? I hear a bit of the drawl in that voice of yers."

"Yes, John, I am. Though I must be honest, I am not completely sure how that relates to the governor’s business." Pierre’s head cocked a bit to the side, his face twisting from the once worn smile to raised eyebrow.

"I like ta get ta know the folk all be workin’ with. Not many yall found over here in Texas, ‘specially by the Grande." Jonathans face remained the same blank stare he has held since the beginning of the conversation. The government always seemed to poke their head into business that had no concern for them, into a world far beyond what their reach should extend to, yet this was the power he was beckoned to yield to since he was elected to this position.

" Once again, John, I am not sure how this relates to what I am here for. I work for the government, I go where they tell me, when they tell me. Now if we could please get to the topic at hand, I would like to start my work early."

"Ah, I’m just bustin’ yer balls, Pierre, I do it to everyone.” Jonathan’s expression cracked into a faux smile as the two men locked each other’s gaze, God he didn’t like this man one bit. ”The creek, yeah? Surveyin’ and the like, I’ll get our very own Sheriff ta show you out there. When ya are done I’d like a copy of what ya are gonna send ta the governor, ya heard."

"Thank you, and of course, I can do that for you."

"Great. It was nice meeting ya Pierre, make sure to stop on by with any questions ya may have. I’ll make sure ta tell Malory to wrangle up Sheriff Ramos straight away" As the two finished their rather brief exchange of words, Jonathan stood up once again, his hand outstretched to the stranger one last time signifying he’s request for Pierre to make his exit. Perceptive of his body language, Pierre took Jonathan’s hand once more, as their hands joined Jonathan’s grip was tighter than before, more strained, and without further thought he shook it sharply before releasing his grip. "Till again, Pierre." With those words Pierre conducted his rather quick exit from the room, Jonathan falling right back into the chair he sat in before, melting into the soft cushions that lined the back as his head fell back in disdain.

"Fuckin’ government shills."