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Breathe. Breathe. Breathe!

Their breath caught in their throat. How had they forgotten how to breathe? Their eyes struggled to open. The oppressive lighting had been enough when their head wasn't swimming, but now it was blinding. Kas brought their hands to their head and pressed at their temples, anything to help ground themselves. How'd they gotten here? Where were they? They hazarded a peek, the pain of the light drawing a sharp exasperated hiss that thankfully proved to them that they did know how to breathe. It was just the drugs scrambling their head.


Right. Drugs. Someone had doped them up when they came to earlier. But... why? it clicked an instant later; probably on account of Kas implying they could probably bite off their own tongue and choke themselves to death, taking down the shuttle if it didn't bring them back home. Some people. No sense of humour. Kas shook their head, as if it would help wring out the still present haze surrounding them. All it achieved was a new height of vertigo that resulted in a pool of bile on the floor beside them. New plan.

Kas groped at their ankles as pieces began to settle into place. They weren't cuffed anymore. And... if they could reach their ankles this easily then... Kas stretched their arms out, confirming to themselves that they were, in fact, uncuffed everywhere. Kas's eyes fluttered in a daring attempt to try and use more than one sense, but that just dragged the vertigo back to the surface and that stab of pain through their skull. They'd been drugged this heavily once before when they broke their arm and had to get it set as a child. That memory of waking up was still fresh even all these years later. They'd forgotten how to breathe as they slithered out of the drug-induced haze and could only silently scream as their body refused to listen to their struggles. In truth, they hadn't forgotten how to breathe. They were breathing just fine. Screaming even better. Turned out Kas just has a high sensitivity to sedatives.

With that in mind, they went back to forcing themselves to recuperate. There was no way they had just been left to their own devices once the shuttle got to whatever new hell was supposed to be awaiting them. That meant something was wrong. But if something was wrong, why was construction being done right outside of the pod? That thud thud thud over and over. Like a hammer against metal again and again. Even though Kas's scrambled senses the sound was overwhelming. They kept at trying to force themselves to investigate. On hands and knees they tried crawling, reorienting themselves every time they ran into something or started to get farther away from the thudding. Their hand landed in something warm and viscous. It stuck to them and as they tried to help themselves up they found more of that stickiness with a misplaced step. "Är det..." they muttered, twisting their ankle, smearing their foot through the mess until it pressed into something coarse. Some kind of linen. Linen with fading warmth beneath it.

Their blood went cold. Something's wrong, echoed in their head. Did the pod crash into the station? Was that a cause of the thudding? Kas stumbled on shaky legs, hugging the wall of the pod, inching closer and closer to the thuds. They threw another arm over their eyes, trying to peak out beneath it. It was all a blur, silhouettes and smears of blending grays. But they were getting close to the exit. "Hej?" they hazarded, their voice a croak, their throat dry and burning.

Out of the pod there were shapes Kas had to assume were people. Kas tried to say something again, but there was nothing this time. Just a faint hiss that felt drowned out by the thuds. They tried to get closer. Maybe these people could help. Maybe... Things began to focus in, shapes and sounds growing sharper. The thuds turned to cracks. The silhouettes turned to people intent on what was ahead of them. That source of the sharp cracks that made Kas's ears ache and their head throb the firearms clenched in the hands of these people. They hadn't noticed Kas yet coming up from behind them. Perhaps they had assumed everyone in Kas's pod had been accounted for. Kas made sure to alert them to their mistake when they tried to make a break away from the men and their knees buckled, sending them sprawling out onto the cold metallic floor of the launch bay with a thud and a hiss of "Fokk!"

Terror in Dublin

Three indelible days have passed as the unthinkable became routine in Dublin. In the wake of the St. Patrick's Hospital a city wide man hunt seized Dublin residents by their hearts. An effort made by thousands united to find the attacker seemed a monumental task -- civilians submitting tips, law enforcement, and NBCI -- but they did it.

The Patient
Attending the National College of Art and Design, Icelandic ex-pat 'Kas' Grímsdóttir was a model student; Banksky Graffiti Art Competition finalist, Landscape Artist of the year nominee twice in the last three years, and gallery exhibitor. Extracurricularly they competed in the Irish Open seven years running, placing in the Grand Champions Division in the recent most year. It was there a fateful conclusion to their meteoric rise through the rankings came to a sudden halt, having broken their leg in the second match of the day. It was then they were brought to St. Patrick's.

Admitted at 5pm Thursday evening, the purple-haired warrior artist was sent to surgery and expected to make an overnight stay to recover. In a series of unfortunate events, Grímsdóttir joined the recent outbreak of staph infections at St. Patrick's. An overnight stay turned to a week. A week to two. Complications compounded until their heart took all it could take and gave out.

Grímsdóttir, like all others born in the past few decades, had been tested for potential genetic sequencing known to produce parahumans at birth and was found to have at risk signs for the disorder. Nearly two decades on from diagnosis, it was deemed a false flag. They yet to show any signs of parahuman ability. The genome that placed them at risk had seemingly been a miss-pairing or incapable of activation. Thus Grímsdóttir was allowed a level of freedom ill-afforded to their activated counterparts; Monitored, but unrestricted travel, a cessation of mandatory testings, no longer having to register their parahuman status. They were free to live normally, just as their peers.

In the weeks following their injury at the Irish Open, their past parahuman status had only been a footnote on their medical records. Had they known what we now known, this footnote would have better served as the single most critical status of Grímsdóttir. As it would soon turn out, the rising artist was in fact a parahuman. James McKinley, a veteran nurse of St. Patricks, was the first on the scene when complications arose for Grímsdóttir. The parahuman had contracted a staph infection which led to further infection and shortly after McKinley's arrival, cardiac arrest. The tragedy of circumstance struck.

The Incident
CCTV footage has Grímsdóttir leaving the scene in a stumbling daze shortly after an explosion rocked the east ward. At the same time, other nurses had arrived to the singed room to find McKinley in a state of shock, over sixty percent of his body covered in burns of the second and third degree. Priorities shifted from finding the source of the explosion and the now missing patient to seeing to the burned nurse. During this time Grímsdóttir had escaped the hospital. McKinley has since been treated for his wounds and is expected to make a recovery in the coming months following extensive physical therapy.

As fellow Dubliners are well aware, the following days were tense as the situation developed and it was quickly learned who the perpetrator was. From freak accident, to terrorist attack, to parahuman attack, and finally to a series of unfortunate events. CONT. PAGE 6.

- Connor Ryan, The Irish Times

Gunsmoke filled the parahuman's nostrils, gagging them. "Fokk," they spat around the metal clenched between their teeth. "Fokk!" they tried once more, screaming it, beating their free hand against their lifeless leg. This was, what? The third time? Forth? It had only been hours since they escaped the hospital that some guard thought it better to shoot them than arrest them. Kas supposed they should thank the guard. He'd shot Kas, sure. But he'd also gotten close enough that whatever it was that happened when they die was able to singe them and afford Kas a good chance to get their own firearm. They'd never used one, but they were quick learners and eager to have something to keep them safe. They knew what happened to parahumans. Especially the dangerous ones, Kas grimly reminded themselves. The second time some intrepid driver had thought it swell to try and stop the 'dangerous' criminal by running over them with a car. Kas was at three burn victims, a totaled hospital room, a burnt out car, a stolen gun, and... probably terrorism at this point? Sure, to the list with you, they resigned.

So here they were at time number... three. It had to be three. Or four. Did the hospital one count? Nah, too boring. They'd been shot again. For the sake of all things holy and unholy, why couldn't they just... SAY SOMETHING FIRST? Right, back to suicide. Kas clenched their teeth around the barrel of the knicked gun and clenched their eyes as tightly as they could. So far it seemed like dying was a panacea for every poison. The bullet that clipped their spine and left their bottom-half numb by that logic should also get fixed. So then... why was pulling the trigger so-

Fuck it.

A gunshot rang out, drowned out an instant later by the sudden roar of concussive force and the hiss of heat that steamed the humid air around the hiding Kas. Kas woke up long enough to see silhouettes in a vignette of black and white before everything went dark. It hadn't worked like before. Why hadn't it worked like before?!

Kas's stomach woke them up. The sensation of gravity or, rather, the lack thereof had been enough to send their starving body into a frenzy for something. Really anything so long as it was edible. Their memories of the events following their paralysis were hazy and Kas took the chance of nauseating weightlessness to sort things out before even daring to open their eyes.

Gun. Mouth. Right, those two check out. I followed through, didn't I? Their body clenched and their toes squirmed. Well, someone followed through if I didn't. Great. What next. Shapes. Voices. Something about... No. No! Kas's eyes shot open. They were strapped in to a standing seat, their limbs restrained to their chest and legs bound together at the heels. Looking down, Kas looked thinner than they remembered. None of their clothes had ever hung on them this loosely. It's not like they'd been on the husky side or anything but... They used to have some meat to them. Around them were some several dozen seats, sparsely populated with others Kas could only assume were like them. Then... the weightlessness they'd been feeling since they came to meant that-

"ETA: Ten minutes," a voice barked over the radio.


Thanks for your consideration, but I'm going to rescind my application. After looking deeper into things, I realised this RP might not be for me. Cheers.
Hey Boss,
An update on how things are shaking up and moving forward once you get back from your leave would be killer. If I recall correctly you were waiting to hear back from some other prospective members. Hope to hear about em.

Hope things are going well on your end~
@Ink Blood
Ya mon.
I think everyone's still around.
In the meantime, I open up a group discussion...

From Laethe's wanderings he's collected many places that he wants to travel to. Some for the sake of satiating curiosity, some for a desire to help other, and some to seek answers for what troubles him. The Broadmarsh has been high among his interests, as he's heard rumors that to travel into it is certain death and that it seems to spread with every passing day. If there is something magical in nature, perhaps he can find a way to at least slow the process. Though, his curiosity far outweighs his desire to be some sort of savior. It's vague mysticism reminds him of the rumours he heard of Falinstad and that's enough to compel him forward.

The conflict with Silvermoor and The Wizard's Tower is one that he'd like to investigate further, given his background in magics and how this conflict may reflect on himself and all other mages beyond the tower. His entire livelihood has been built off of being a traveling mage, so if something horrific were to happen to Silvermoor he fears he'd find himself to be a much less welcome sight to those he meets in his travels. He also wants to search the archives of the Wizard's Tower, but he has reservations about approaching it or even making himself known to the institution. If they knew more about him, there'd be questions. Laethe deeply dislikes questions and knows of none more inquisitive than children and wizards.

He also longs to visit Salutem, given its forbidden fruit nature. Perhaps there he could find direct communion with the gods, should any exist. He's constantly in search of answers and after his falling out with the gods, he is drawn to test them and see if there's any proof that they exist. Visiting Salutem is the last way he can think of to attempt to draw a response out of the gods.
I'd be up to see your ideas, Inky.
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