BONFIRE LIGHTS IN THE MIRROR OF SKY.

[wastemods]

WHO: Everyone in game.
WHAT: Our first event log!
WHERE: Anywhere in the world core.
WHEN: After the storms begin.
NOTES: Expect surreal horror and possible violence. Please use common sense when warning for other content.

Photo by drainrat

PREVIOUSLY, ON THE WASTEYARD.

The world remains divided into a land where either a hazy sun shines muted light above or a full moon casts silvery shadows below. They hang fixed, as if nailed in place, more like theatrical props than far-off heavenly bodies. And you can still see only one of them, depending on which side you arrived.

Meanwhile, the storm rages.

On both sides of the world, the rain starts and doesn't stop. The temperature drops, transforming torrential rain into icy snow. Gusts of wind become gales and spin detritus into shrapnel, man-made disasters turned natural. Shadows spin wildly—almost comically—in cyclones, before bursting into nothingness; if you aren't careful, the winds will snatch you, too. Out here, the only protection you might have is cooperating with each other.

Indoors, it's certainly warmer, but that just means water doesn't freeze. Buildings flood with chilly water that rises no matter how many stairs you climb. Architecture groans under the pressure of earthquakes, sending more water cascading through the ceiling before it disappears into cracks below. Is anywhere safe?

Well, yes. One place, splintered into many. The mirrors in ash-gray frames stand sentinel, scattered throughout the world. They emit warm light from the other side; sunlight spills moonside and moonlight reflects sunside. Water impossibly flows around and away from them, leaving behind untouched earth that stays still and silent. Standing in front of them gives you a respite, a tiny bubble of safety to wait out the worst.

INTO THE LABYRINTH.

Once you plunge indoors—unless you're really that determined to take your chances in the storm—you'll find every building with electricity experiencing a brownout. The overhead lights flicker and radios crackle with static, warbling broken news reports and tunes. They eavesdrop on strings of Morse code and private confessions on ham radio. If it's ever been broadcast on the airwaves, public or personal, you might hear it if you tune to the right station; you might even hear yourself, replaying a conversation you've had or will have. And sometimes the audio seems pointed, preternaturally so, as if tuned to your own thoughts and words.

Meanwhile, the waters continue to rise. The halls stretch long, seemingly infinite and twisted into knots. In some of them, no matter how far you walk, it seems like you never get any closer to the end; in others, you hit one dead end and can't stop hitting dead ends, no matter how many times you retrace your steps. None of that's unusual.

But if you delve deep into dark enough recesses (whether accidentally or intentionally), the world calms. The water recedes. Mirrors materialize in the dead ends, scratching out an "X" in the frame before your eyes. If you touch one, the glass falls away in ribbons, flowing like quicksilver and fleeing farther into the darkness. It reveals a hole on the other side, so deep a black it looks flat. Wherever it goes, it's so dark you can't see the other side.

And that's when you hear a sound like someone inhaling and then exhaling, steadily breathing around you. No...you feel it. A presence that has no form no matter how hard you look, but follows you in creaks and groans. It feels like being stalked by a monster in a maze.

Running from it only intensifies the feeling. Attacking makes it even worse. Calm acceptance is the only way to lessen or even neutralize it, but that's something you'll have to discover for yourself. In the end, there's no way to defeat it. You have to trust your instincts and believe it's there, despite the fact that you can't see or touch it.

CHANGING SIDES.

Elsewhere, it starts as a smell.

As the ground shudders and cracks, the stench of rot comes from the fissures. Mirrors and windows melt off walls, and a strong sense of vertigo comes and goes, like cresting waves. Looking out a window shows buildings and bridges breaking off of the labyrinth and drifting—or plummeting—away. They dissolve into nothingness as they vanish into the abyss, like they were bathed in acid. The already fragile world is falling apart.

It comes with a pervasive sense of wrongness, perhaps ironic in a world where everything is already wrong. But that's when it happens: You look up and realize you're no longer where you started. The sun or the moon, whichever you expected, is no longer in the sky. Instead, on the horizon lies its opposite.

It's a phenomenon unique to areas with high concentrations of ash mirrors and hallways, particularly when there's someone else on the other side. Sometimes the instability flips your positions, so one of you is now in the dimension where the other previously stood, while other times it drags you both together into the light of the sun or moon. It's like you resonate, magnets attracting or repelling each other in little pockets of peace.

THE LOCKED ROOM.

Amidst the chaos, as the world shifts and there's no telling where or when you are, you slip through a crack. Or maybe you're a weirdo who climbed through the hole left behind a mirror.

In either case, the fissure is both literal and metaphorical, influenced by the unstable world and your actions. Maybe you step through a door, crawl through a crevice, close your eyes, or do something else to take you between here and there. Whatever the case, you find yourself in a room unlike any others you've seen in this distorted world. Well...once you look closer, anyway. On the surface, it may just be another kitchen, ballroom, or cellar.

But in these rooms, it doesn't matter which side of the divide you were on. Not only because you can't see whatever lights the sky, but because they lie between dimensions. There are no windows and no doors; you'll only find walls the same mottled gray as everything else in this place. Attacking them gets you nowhere. Any damage is there and gone, like the erased moments between flashes of a strobe light. There is no easy way out.

But there is a mirror. Hairline cracks run through its surface, shattering a single reflection into multitudes. Set in an ash-gray frame like so many others, it's left somewhere in the room, whether hanging on a wall, haphazard on the floor, or leaning against some furniture. It emanates the skin-prickling sensation of being watched. Turning away doesn't help; you can feel it gazing at your back.

The haunted feeling only subsides when you stare back. And you should stare back, because these mirrors are your escape route. Staring into them will reveal someone on the other side with the same predicament. Surprisingly, you can hear each other when you speak. It even comes translated if you don't speak the same language, although your mouths still sync to your native tongues. It's like a poorly dubbed movie.

Touching the mirror gives you the impression it's somehow leeching off you, trying to fill those cracks. Try to pull your hand away and you'll find it's a little difficult, like unsticking your tongue from a cold pole. Moreover, you'll feel a compulsion to tell the truth, to do something real.

THE GREAT ESCAPE.

For those of you left behind where the sun and moon still shine, keep an eye on your own mirrors, especially broken ones that seem to be influenced by something invisible. They display a room that most decidedly isn't your own, acting more like a window than a mirror. And whoever's inside, trapped, might call on you for help. You won't be able to hear them, though, so how are you with body language?

Meanwhile, for escapees...

No matter how you escape the rooms, you might notice something a little strange once you get back to the labyrinth. Well, stranger. For a brief window of time (one that grows longer with each room you escape), you'll discover the sun and moon occupy the same sky. The area you've entered is a temporary nexus of sorts, one that fuses the dimensions into something that almost seems stable.

It feels right, but the world isn't strong enough to hold itself together for long.

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Comments

robbie reyes. aos. ota

[calculo]

001. RAIN.

( at first, the rain's refreshing. after all the dirt and dust that he's been breathing, the rain starts to wash it all away. he turns his face up to the sky and feels the water beat down against his skin.

the relief doesn't last. soon enough, the water's cold enough to sting and robbie's taking his jacket off and covering his head with it as he makes for the nearest building he can find. it's an old, broken down thing that leans but looks to be mostly intact.

he slams through the door and shivers. he actually freaking shivers which surprises him enough that he can only stand there and stare. he's used to running hot. he's used to running really hot so to shiver just drives home that this place isn't anything like he's prepared for.

the water rushes in and robbie climbs a few flights, trying to get away from it, trying to get dry but the water keeps coming coming coming. his jeans are soaked, his shoes sopping.

eventually, he comes to the top floor and watches the water start to trickle in over the ripped up carpeting. )

Dios.

( this place needed to give him a break. he moves further away from the water, feeling his socks squish and slide inside his shoes. he's unwilling to take them off though because the water's freezing and he doesn't need to deal with hypothermia right now. he backs up until he hits a wall and the mirror behind him jangles.

he glances over his shoulder, catches sight of his reflection and rolls his eyes. nothing else survived in this building but this mirror looked picture perfect. of course. )

002. ESCAPE.

( there'd been a door at the end of a hall. a door that looked dry, untouched by the water and robbie had gone through. he'd gone through and then the door disappeared, leaving him in a room with four walls, a roof and little else. it's so dark. it's so, so dark that it feels like it's sucking at him. it takes a lot to shake robbie but this is doing it.

something shifts, something shuffles and robbie's hands tighten into fists. his eyes glow, for the briefest seconds, orange and bright, before the light fades. if you managed to catch that, don't expect to get a straight answer out of robbie though he would really appreciate the hell demon making itself known right now. that, at least, would give them a way out of here. )

Who's there? ( gruff. snapped. he's not going to just stand there and let some shadow consume him. the hell demon's not going to let him die, he's sure of that. )

Come out, come out, wherever you are. ( his voice lowers and he steps further into the center of the room, trying to track whoever was there by sound. the dark of the room seems to just expand, sinks into his skin, makes it feel like it's taking him over.

he takes a breath and blows it out. he needs to get the hell out of here. )

003. WILDCARD.

( feel free to choose your own adventure. )

002, as discussed 👀

[fumitory]

( it's maddening — Ben can't scrutinize the walls of this room for long before that feeling of dread builds up his back, cold, claws dragging at skin. he feels observed, put on the spot, a sensation made worse by the pure knowledge that Ben doesn't have a damn clue what he's doing here.

he looks for any seams in the walls through the dim, holding a white feather in his right hand. in itself, the feather holds a gentle light, perhaps just barely visible in a well-lit room or under midday sun, but here, it glows admirably. his concentration goes in spurts between stubborn inspection, and flashes of paranoia, disorienting when his attention gets pulled out from underneath him.

it doesn't feel real — which is the understatement of the century, yes — but when Ben thinks it, it's genuine. something about this room feels odd, too deliberate, fabricated. it carries more intention than the assembled chaos, a collection of what feels unwanted.

why else does he feel like he's being watched, like this?

eventually, after long enough of muttering to himself in the silence, hushed and under his breath...Ben hears a voice. he strains to listen, alight to realize that the words are in English — that's a relief.

except...is it? he wonders as he strings them together, and... well, that isn't disconcerting or anything. )

Who are you talking to?

( accusatory, and leveled with the calm handling of a man who seems plenty comfortable in his standing to be saying such a thing. authoritative, despite quivering with something tense at the edges.

out of instinct, Ben turns toward the mirror, affixed to the wall where wallpaper spills sadly away in weak strips and curls. in Ben's shockingly extensive experience with mirrors, he's learned first-hand that they haven't allowed voices through, so please do pardon him for standing like an idiot in front of his. in view, he still holds the feather, a small beacon, like a matchstick in the dull space. ) I'm here, I suppose. ( to answer your question. )

001.

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

No no, pardon. I don't no think it's him.

[She's curled up on the floor with her back to a mirror, knees to her chest, a lumpy backpack and yardstick next to her. There was no mistaking the stomp of feet on the stairs, but the voice isn't one she knows, and a new tension's entering her limbs.]

Something doesn't like us. No.

003. hey buddy wanna buy a mirror.

[ascocarp]

[Ellie hasn't been in a great mood for a variety of reasons. Getting stuck in what was clearly once a baby's nursery is one of them. The nursery having no doors or windows or way to get the fuck out is another. The fact that it's cold doesn't help.]

[The real killer is the fact that fucking Robbie is the only person she can see, reflected through a disincongruously ornate mirror hanging on the horsey-patterned wall. She bangs on the mirror like you knock on a door.]

Hey! Shithead!

03. hell room. BREAK edition.

[itselbitch]

[ of course, any hope for escape is short-lived. like an idiot, he thought he was home free after he finally burst through the main doors, but instead he stumbles into somewhere else completely, a dead end. fuck. he turns to go back through the door only to find a wall there. this is like the key bullshit all over again.

he feels the wall, wishing it'll give anyway. it doesn't, and he gives a disappointed huff before turning back around and. realizing he isn't alone here. ]

...Robbie? [ something isn't right. and not in that niggling feeling sort of way. robbie looks wrong, and that's suddenly quite alarming to realize right after the fraction of comfort from familiarity. at least el is far less worse for wear than he'd been the last time they'd seen each other. not that he's sure it really matters right now since he can feel tension in the air and the urge to ready himself for defense rising up in his chest. ]

003 - let's break some mirrors

[snikthatch]

[ Logan's been walking for hours, or maybe longer. It feels like it might be longer. At least the vertigo and fever is starting to ease off. He's hoping this means his healing factor is adapting to this weird broken reality. The frostbite on his hands is mostly gone, although the cold still gnaws at him in a way that he hasn't felt in a long time.

He's getting tired of the hallways. Ducking through doors to find longer stretches, stairs that lead nowhere, and strange crooked rooms that make him feel like throwing up when he looks at them.

Eventually he decides to stop for a while, pushing open a door and expecting another corridor. Instead he finds himself in a room that looks like a library, shelves covered in ancient books and full of the smell of rotten paper. He drags his fingertips over them, scowling at the greasy feel of the dust. When he picks one off the floor he finds it's blank, and again when he pulls another off a shelf at random.

A mirror hazed with cracks is nestled between the stacks; his tired mind doesn't make the connection until it's too late and he turns around to find the door melted away behind him. He lunges forward, uselessly, his claws sliding out as he roars his frustration. ]

No! Fuck! Not again!

octavia blake | ota

[gonplei]

001 | the storm

[ If there's anything Octavia hates, it's being trapped in a small space. She spent so much of her life beneath the floorboards, frightened, and that feeling comes right back whenever she's confined. At least she has a little room to breathe here, but hardly any to move; she's got her back pressed up against a mirror, knees pulled up to her chin to make herself smaller.

In the few months she was on Earth at ground level, she never experienced more than rain and puddles. Inclement weather is new and uncharted territory for her. She hasn't the slightest idea what she'll do if the water rises any higher. Go under, she supposes, and try to make it quick.

She breathes in slowly through her nose, breathes out slowly through her mouth. ]

I am not afraid, [ she mutters, a mantra to keep her cool. She thinks about death all the time, but not like this. This isn't a warrior's death. ] I am not afraid.

002 | the mirrors

[ By the time she makes her way to the locked room, she's fed up with this Wonderland nonsense. The mirror before had fallen apart at her touch, and it's the first thing she tries. Instead, she just feels like she's being sucked in, and she rips her hand away with a significant amount of effort.

Fine. Looks like this one will take a bit more coaxing.

She rips a piece of cloth from her jacket and wraps it around her knuckles before full-force punching the mirror, regardless of anyone on the other side's protests. It hurts like hell, but the mirror cracks, at least. She breathes a sigh of relief, thinking that perhaps if she breaks it, the same thing will happen like before — a new path will open to her.

As quickly as hope came to her, though, it's drained away. The cracks from her strike start to mend themselves before her eyes. ] Dammit.

[ She strikes the mirror again. Again, it mends itself. Angry, she follows up with another. And another, and another— ]

003 | wildcard

[ Do your worst! Prose or brackets are fine w/ me. ]

002

[fumitory]

—Will you keep it down!

( a voice from nowhere, suddenly, echoing as if from a neighboring room, through an open doorway. posh, almost stereotypical with the fussiness of the sudden demand. dust-covered leather shoes step into view, with slacks of earth tones with the most mild of plaid detailing taking the center of view, detail so subtle unless someone were, oh I don't know, looking through a mirror with the vantage point of the floor.

which is the case, here, emphasized by the fact that the man has to crouch down to look desperately into the frame of view. brow pinched in down the middle, Ben stares in through the mirror to find someone on the other side, with a fist leveled to him — well, maybe not at him. hopefully not at him! )

God's sake, what are you doing? ( at least this query comes across as more curious, than demanding? )

001. or 100 amirite.

[ascocarp]

[Ellie is making her way from mirror to mirror in reckless jumps, using anything she can to traverse the gaps between. It's a slow, painful process that leaves her soaked and shivering, but she does it like she does everything else: raw, unfettered determination.]

[Then she hears a sound in the darkness, a voice, a whisper. It immediately reminds her of infected, even if there's no real similarity in the tone. Everyone has their own bad memories.]

[She pulls out her knife, and crouched on the bookshelf she's scrambled to the top of, looking down through the darkness.]

[I am not afraid. I am not afraid.]

[No, that's a human. Empathy warms her, and she retracts the knife. She doesn't have rope, though. She pokes through her backpack, pulling out one of her books (she immediately found plastic to wrap them in when the water got bad) and begins to recite in a loud, clear voice, despite the water riding.]

Why are frogs so happy?

002

[badassassin]

Athena has been just letting this girl scream and smash mirrors for awhile now, calmly and methodically searching the little room on her side for some kind of way out. A vent, a crack in the wall, a secret latch. Anything. But eventually, frustrated by the lack of clues and the noise, she snaps.

"You know, they say insanity is when you keep doing the same thing and expect a different result," she says loudly, coming over to her side of the mirror to inspect it for the twentieth time. Don't mention the hypocrisy.

ellie | tlou | ota.

[ascocarp]

a. FROM SUN UP TO SUN DOWN | anywhere inside.

The hallways surge with water, and... Ellie is screwed. She tries to outrun the torrent, but it just keeps coming. Her instinct to find higher ground doesn't work for shit.

The thing is, she never learned to swim. Not that it matters much, with the current this strong, but it still elicits a special fear in her, more intense than usual, and that's... saying something.

The water catches her. She flounders, flailing and choking, trying desperately to keep her head above the water.

b. PEACE COULD NOT BE FOUND | in the labyrinth.

Something is following her.

Ellie knows what to do. She sits, and she waits. She finds supplies and does her best to be resourceful. She's been trying to ignore some of Joel's advice, get out of the feeling of being under his thumb, but here? He'd survive. He'd know what to do. She does what she thinks he would.

A sound in the darkness, and she tenses, and then she throws. A tin can with nails sticking out of it lands not far from wherever you are, noise-maker; steam slowly hisses out of it.

And then Ellie's voice, and the stomping of her feet, running toward you. "Shit, shit, shit! Get away!" She grabs you and attempts, with all her meager strength, to pull you from the tin can, which is now shaking slightly.

c. NOW THEY ARE UNDER THE GROUND | deep in the labyrinth.

This entire experience hasn't been good to her, but Ellie's used to that. If you work hard to make the environment work for you, you can always find something. That's what Joel taught her, among other things. So, she found matches. She beat the shit out of some furniture. She made a bonfire and she sits at the side, trying to warm up. She's shivering, swearing under her breath, and trying to bandage her arm.

There's a cut, blood, and also... with the sleeve pulled up, in the light of the fire, you might find the scar of a very old bite mark. That is, if you're quick. As soon as she hears someone approaching-- she but woodchips near the perimeter, to make sure anyone coming in would make noise, an old trick-- she slides her sleeve back down again, and looks up from where she's sitting.

"Wow," she says, and fatigue is obvious in her voice. "You look like shit."

It doesn't matter how you look. She's saying it for herself.

d. I HEARD THEM COMPLAIN | escape room.

However you got here, Ellie hasn't figured a way out, yet. She ended up in a room with no windows or doors, no way out, and nothing she could think of released her. It feels like hours. She's cold, and the room is painfully dark. She's lit a fire in the furnace, and is huddled around it, her back to the mirror she's completely overlooked.

You may hear her quietly talking to herself, if you listen through your own connecting mirror.

"What a stupid fucking way to die."

e. CRY OUT IN PAIN | escape room rescue.

Stuck as she is, she's trying to communicate with somebody. Mirrors mean something, right? She figured that out the hard way. But the person on the other side can't seem to hear her, whatever she does.

Ellie has tired of banging on the mirror, now she's trying to get your attention by writing messages. She breathes on the glass and hurriedly tries to write before it fades out of existence.

f. SEEKING PEACEFUL GAIN | anywhere inside.

Eventually, you get desperate. Everyone does it. You do something dumb, like crawl through a crack in the wall and get stuck. It's not her fault. She's used to being able to slip into tight spaces. That used to be her only use. Maybe she's grown? She kind of wishes she could have figured that out in, like, a good way.

But at the end of the day, she's fucking stuck and doesn't know what to do. She's managed to get one arm out, and is waving it around-- not asking for help, just... trying to get some leverage.

All this means is, well, if you're wandering around minding your own business, and you notice a dirt, dusty hand trying to claw itself out of the wall, well. This is your life, now.

g. UNDER THE SUN, MOON, AND STARS | wildcard option.

[yooo i'm open for anything, feel free to mix and match prompts or come up with your own stuff; it's all good! i've got a plotting comment over here if you wanna talk shop about ellie saving you instead of vice versa. if you feel the need, hmu on the game server or at wehwalt! also, like, i prefer prose but don't super care, if you feel more comfortable in brackets, go for it.]

d.

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

Ruth doesn't have any other choice but to listen. Her head's no longer swimming with nausea, but only by virtue of emptying it of everything else. (And that takes its own kind of energy, leaving her a different kind of tired and worn, but at least she's not bleeding. For now.) She felt her way around the room when she entered it, finding books and vases filled with dried-out sticks of flowers and the hard, wooden frame of a mirror. (For a moment, she'd hoped it was a window, but that instinct drained away when she realized she could prise her fingers behind it and feel wall.)

No doors. Neither food nor water. And nothing she can actually make use of besides herself and the junk she's tossed into an old backpack she found. Nothing until that voice.

"We aren't dead yet. Pardon, yes--" As she says it, she's still listening, running the tip of her makeshift cane (actually a yardstick) over the bare floorboards like she might hit a pair of shoes. The voice doesn't seem to have a body, though it sounds like it's here--not the crackle of her walkie-talkie, where everyone's voice gets compressed into tin. "Where sorry are you?"

e.

[badassassin]

Athena's not pleased with being back indoors, but she's even less pleased with being stuck outside in this kind of weather, so she's chosen the least of the two evils. She's also just being very careful around any reflective surfaces this time around, not keen on getting sucked into one again, which is why it takes her awhile to notice the girl on the other side of the mirror.

It takes her a second of squinting to read the backwards text, and she makes a derisive noise once she deciphers it. She doesn't really want to get too close to it, so she can't write a response (luckily she's already familiar with how this whole thing works); instead, she shrugs exaggeratedly as if to ask what she wants, unaware that she'd be able to hear her from her side.

wildcard option, as discussed (holdingoutforahero.mp3)

[fumitory]

( like a calamity that the bible foretold, the sky was rent apart with a terrible ease, and a shattering suddenness. the ground groaned in agony, like something were being split apart, and with the atmosphere a connected appendage to this entire world, it echoed the same sentiment.

more than just rain or freezing sleet — everything rapidly flooded. Ben clamors for high ground, trapped in the unwanted ride of icy water, because believe that it caught him well off-guard. god bless adrenaline, for being the main thing keeping Ben alive as he was swept up in a hard current. he'd come so close to crawling out to safety, only to get smacked in the face with a surge of water coming down overhead.

at some point, Ben's aching, numb hands manage to grasp onto a stair banister, ornate and old, polished wood. his hands can only grip so hard — he isn't really sure how hard he's holding on at all, for he can't feel a thing aside from a bone-deep, cold pain. water cuts over his shoulder and spills in his face, but if he can just get a footing, if he can just pull himself up, he can make it up out of the water.

it's just that — Ben isn't feeling very connected to his body at the moment, his hands are slipping down this sleek-lacquered banister, which by the way is now beginning to whine lowly under the weight of being pulled, and Ben is aspirating water as he goes. it doesn't look good for him at the moment. )

c

[swordliest]

She's probably right. The low hum at the back of his mind, the nagging sensation of being followed— those are things that he's used to, more so than the persistent, yawning silence of this place. But his instinct has always been to fight first, to turn on the threat, seek it out, and silence it. It's stuck him into a negative feedback loop that's left him edgy and paranoid, more so than usual.

It's the fire that attracted him, having gotten the idea in his head that whatever's following him might have stopped to get its bearings, but once she's close enough to recognize, he stops. She says something, and... right, out here it's garbled.

He holds up one hand, a hopefully universal signal for one second, and stoops to dig through his travel pack. He's yet to meet anyone he's been able to understand or who's been able to understand him, and so he's started hoarding anything that might help: an old moleskine journal with only the front cover, the unprotected back pages wrinkled and damp, which he shoves under his arm; the beepy little rectangle that won't stop beeping at him, which he unceremoniously drops on the ground beside him; and finally, what he's looking for— tiny, chunky plastic walkie talkies clearly made for children, painted in too-bright camo.

He holds one out to her, miming a low underhand toss so that she knows what he's about to do before he, yes, tosses it to her.

c

[snikthatch]

It's been.. days? Weeks? Logan's used to keeping track of time in unconventional places -- jail cells, giant cages, strapped to a table in a lab, the occasional dank basement while being picked apart by cannibals -- but something about this place is messing with him. Could be the endless night, could be the fact that nowhere looks the same twice. Could just be the low grade adamantium poisoning fever he's been running since he arrived, which hasn't been helped by the fact that winter has decided to come all over the damn place with no warning.

Dark. Cold enough that his breath clouds in front of him. At least he avoided the flood, although hanging from a telephone pole in a blizzard wasn't exactly a day at the park. He closes his fists on the red burn of frostbite that's refusing to fade away on his palms. It itches the deep unsettling itch of slowly healing skin, eating away at his ability to cope. He thought he was used to that feeling. Turns out, not so much.

He's at least got something else to wear besides his uniform: a hoodie that smells like peanuts and has pockets of bits of them, shells crunching under his fingers as he shoves his hands into them. Better than nothing.

The smell of wood smoke guides him through the building he's found himself in. It's undercut with the sharp copper tang of blood and a familiar scent. Teenage hormones and gutsy resolve.

He doesn't bother trying to hide from her. Admires the woodchips as he steps through them, scuffing them back into place as he passes.

She looks up and tells him what he already knows.

"You ain't exactly lookin' so good yourself, kid." He shrugs out of his hoodie, warm from his body heat -- one benefit of running too warm -- and holds it out to her.

a.

[ragnarsson]

Ivar's been having the same struggle. The water just keeps rising and there's nothing he can do to escape it. This is how he goes then, the worst way imaginable he can think of to die. It's only by sheer luck he ends up in front of a mirror while trying to move to a higher floor. When he realizes the water flows around it, he finally has a moment's respite. But it's short, for he can hear the sounds of someone struggling greatly.

Looking out, he can see Ellie about to go under in the current. As she goes by, a hand grabs a hold of her wrist in a grip so tight it might have broken it under different circumstances. Whoever is holding onto her is really strong. No surprise there considering he's used his arms to get around most of his life. She nearly tears out of his grasp with how strong the water is flowing, but for once, those cumbersome leg braces work in his favor. They give Ivar a solid center of gravity that allows him to pull on her until she's finally out of the flood.

He stumbles back until he's hauled them both in front of the mirror. He's panting a little from the effort. "Eru yðr allt í lagi?" 'Are you alright?' He asks in a concerned tone.

lee sung-hoon | duel | ota

[rehumanize]

1 | INCIDENT REPORT —

[It takes Sung-hoon a while to find clothes that aren't bloody, made worse by the violent storm and constantly rising waters; his only reprieve has been the mirror behind him, giving him a chance to change into something dry. His hair is still soaked, from when gravity inverted and sent him splashing down a stairwell, and he dumps his old, wet clothes on the carpet. He ignores the red stain they leave behind, shrugging on a jacket with a wince.

He only glances up when he hears a sound, one that doesn't quite belong in the creaking of metal and concrete.]

Who's there? Show yourself.

[His tone gets across what Korean might not, as he reaches for a scalpel next to him.]

2 | LOCKED ROOM MYSTERY —

A | PUTTING THE LAB IN LABYRINTH;

[He regrets ever touching the mirror. It doesn't matter what it woke; Sung-hoon knew the feeling all too well and it sent him skidding down a hall, to a door. He'd torn it open and found himself in what was, unmistakably, a lab. A lab without windows or doors, filled with test tubes and hospital equipment, and that was all he needed to see before he turned back around to try his luck in the maze.

But of course the door was gone. Of course.

He kicks over a full-length mirror, out of place in the room, and doubles over, clutching his chest and struggling to catch his breath. The mirror, for its part, hits the ground, shatters, and returns to its hairline crack state. Like he'd never done anything at all.

Sung-hoon stares at it before he laughs, an ugly, unnatural sound.]

Well, that's interesting. I didn't know hell was supposed to be metaphorical.

B | COLLECT CALL;

[Another room without an exit. He takes the time to rummage around this one, keenly aware of feeling watched, and tears apart what might've once been a family attic. He kicks over a dollhouse, spilling decapitated barbies across the floor—he pauses to pick up a RAZR phone from the mess—before moving on to a cardboard box. He dumps its contents onto the floor and rifles through papers and picture frames; when that gives him nothing, he sets upon a desk. He knocks off everything on it, pulls out the drawers, and finally...

There's a cracked vanity behind it. The haunted feeling subsides as Sung-hoon stares at it.]

Found you. [He shoves the desk aside, grabs a wrench off the floor, and smashes the mirror. It's really loud. Sorry, whoever's on the other side.]

3 | NETWORK —

[He's given up on trying to use the phone as an actual phone, or even trying to manually punch in numbers. Instead, he's resorted to scrolling through the small list of existing contacts, which he finds are mostly incomprehensible strings of letters and numbers.

So he picks one and maybe, if you're really unlucky, it's you.]

FROM: p3wp3w

Who are you?

[ooc: Good for alt prompts, variations on whatever's already here, or whatever else. No plotting comment (yet???), but you can hmu here!]

1.

[sorrypardonyesthankyou]

[The sound is a light scrape, a piece of wood sweeping back and forth over the rough floor. (She's never actually had to use a cane before, much less a makeshift one; she doesn't know all the tricks to it, and it makes her slow. Not good, when water's threatening to nip at her heels at any moment.) Ruth's paused, just for a moment, trying to decide what the wet plop of fabric means. She has to work to keep herself from finding out the way she usually would.

He's the first person she's come across in days now, and all she knows is the sound of his voice. He must not know the walkie talkie trick. Pulling hers up from where she clipped it to her pants, she hits the button.]

Pardon, sorry-- Just looking for someplace safe. Don't mean sorry to interrupt--

[Thunder cracks loudly outside. She can't help but wonder if she missed the lightning.]

will graham | hannibal | ota (one closed prompt, rest are open)

[wontgraham]

STORM (mirror or sun-side shenanigans edition). {open, feel free to tweak as-needed for your reply}

[ To say Will's luck here has been 'bad' doesn't really do it justice. Loneliness feels like an extra presence after this long — and he can't even measure how long it's been with anything further than how many times he's gotten too exhausted to keep going, and had to snatch sleep while hiding under a rusted table or inside a car with no engine and half its doors missing.

He still hasn't met anyone in person. And the closest he'd gotten, in fact, the one time Will had become aware of the different spheres here — sun and moon in their respective mirrors — they'd both moved. The tease of it still aches in Will's chest.

Not that he has a lot of time to worry about that right now. Sun-side now, Will gave up outrunning the rising water after five floors, and instead went sideways through the office facsimile he'd ended up in, wading waist-deep through frigid rainwater before he'd found a mirror.

He'd gone towards it out of instinct before he'd even processed the unusual fact that it's...ringed by the water like the epicenter of an invisible swimming pool. Will steps out of the wall of rainwater and, while he doesn't dry off instantly — his shoes squelch water with each step — the floor by the mirror stays dry.

He climbs right up onto the counter — because of course it's hung over a wall-length countertop — and sits on it, side pressed to the glass so he can keep an eye on the mirror and the room at large. ]

CLOSED. {closed; for ben}

[ Will is in the labyrinth. Or that's what it had felt like before — now it's one long passageway that ends at yet another mirror. He reaches out a hand to touch it on instinct, remembering the protection of before. Which means he gets to watch the mirror rip itself apart, melting away like liquid metal. It leaves a cavernous hole behind itself, a doorway with no door and no sign of what's beyond it.

Will thinks of carving his name into a mirror twenty-three cycles of sleeping ago, and wonders if this is it speaking to him again. ]

What's your name? [ he asks, and the only answer is the drawing sound of something formless breathing behind him. Will's own breath rattles too-loud in his ears. He places one hand on the empty frame of the mirror. It's smooth, not the ragged texture he'd expect from broken glass fragmenting away.

Safe to touch. Will leans his head in and sees nothing beyond it, but he can't hear the breathing anymore. It's like there's— nothing, except the beating presence of whatever's in the dark is unmistakable.

Will drags himself through.

*

Another mirror. He can't feel surprised; realizes he'd expected this, by now. Will comes forward immediately, and only thinks that maybe it's more than his own instinct pulling him by the time he's touching fingers to the cracked surface. Will thinks of Braille and wonders if the spider-webbing means anything, or if it's truly random. Is anything here random? Or is it intentional chaos? ]

What happens if I carve into this one? [ Will asks softly. He's starting speaking out loud to himself more, in the absence of anyone except the endless setting to overhear.

Except... it's not so endless anymore, is it? Not in this closed room. Will glances around — the hair on the back of his neck prickles when he exposes it fully to the mirror — and then turns back to it, fingers still gently against it.

Until he sees a form he recognizes. ] —Ben!

STORM (radio feedback edition). {open, could happen sun or moon side, feel free to add whatever twist you'd like in your reply}

[ The storm is full of snow and ice, by now, and Will dusts his shoulders and hair off as he tries to drag the door shut. It doesn't fit the frame, not quite, and instead he turns and heads deeper into the building, leave it clattering in the wind behind himself.

There's — radios in here. More than usual. They line each piece of furniture in varying states of water damage. Drifts of snow catch at Will's ankles and then his knees as he wades deeper through what appears to be an office.

A familiar voice has Will freezing, stock-still, and straightening up to listen.

Just there— through the crackling, through the howling wind coming in the window by his head, it's himself from barely two months ago. 'I already did.'

He knows what comes next. He knows it must be the radios. He knows it's not actually Doctor Lecter here, but when the rest follows in the other man's voice — 'Fate and circumstance have returned us back to this moment, when the teacup shatters,' — and is accompanied by the sound of the wind breaking something glass in the room with him, Will acts on instinct.

He grabs the nearest blunt object — it appears to be a portable hole-puncher — and runs, breathing hard, no longer feeling the cold that's turning his fingertips white and his nose red. ]

ESCAPE ROOM. {open}

[ The next time — or the time after that, or the one after that — that Will appears in the windowless room with just a mirror for company, he didn't dive into the back of the labyrinth mirror. No, this time he fell in, accidental, and it takes him a moment to orient himself despite having done this before.

He's still damp from the rainwater. That's...frustrating. Anyone arriving second and looking into their mirror will see a man seated cross-legged in front of his own mirror, staring determinedly into it with a slightly frown. Hope that's not disconcerting.

If Will arrives second, however, he wastes no time in checking his own mirror for whoever's on the other side. Enjoy a man in damp flannel and jeans suddenly staring through at you. Maybe the dusting of snow in his hair makes him look more harmless.]


{ooc; will has a plotting post over here, if you want to plan something in particular! also feel free to talk to me over at itrhymes. i ❤️ contrived character drama so lmk if you have deep desires for nonsense.}

once more, but with feeling

[fumitory]

( at this point, Ben would confidently wager the timespan of having spent genuine days here in this over-exposed, dulled-out grayscape under a hazy, lackluster sun. not that the transition from the light-intensity of an overcast day to the dark interior of a structure was any significant one, but having to change from day to night became a bit exhausting in its own way.

but they've swapped — himself and Will, the man in the mirror, the voice through a radio, always half a connection. seen but not heard, heard but invisible. that's what they get for giving in to their equal yearning to mesh into each other's spaces; the world flips their settings, instead, and Ben stumbles down into a scene of nighttime, illuminated in a vibrant, silvery glow.

but their mirror fell apart, and Ben has caught just a glimpse of Will entering the void it had left behind, before his own mirror had withered to nothing.

Ben couldn't do it. it whispered to him in voices that burned so familiarly as to ache, and it had just taken Will, too. he nearly crawled in with the hope to follow the other man, but — something about that hole in the wall made the blood in his veins run cold.

pulling himself away was the single hardest thing he's done since arriving here.

and Ben immediately questions his trepidation after five minutes and putting a fair amount of distance between himself and the wall that seemed eager to consume whatever semblance of a connection Ben had made with someone. if it wanted to encourage their connection, wouldn't it finally let them through onto the same plane? topsy-turvy this world may be, but must it really be so contrary all of the time?

that's when the looming fear creaks over Ben, like shadows and structures stretching up and making him feel strangely minute. he thinks, perhaps, he he had just sullied the one open doorway that they had both been looking for.

damn it.

he's thrown out into the wild storm, the one he had been eager to avoid; it rushes up to him like an insistent child, slamming around his shins and capturing him. Ben wades through, water splashing up and tickling his face — he has to find shelter, now, from the storm raging on as it fills every enclosed space. it's a race against this bizarre temperament of his surroundings, pitch black sky and blanched landscape under a still-visible moon, despite the rain and wind.

when Ben climbs for higher ground, he finds a point inside a loft space where a new mirror lies; the water laps sleepily around a circular perimeter, half-hearted in its attempts, as if the floor were at an incline here. Ben clamors for it, where the water doesn't reach, and lets himself collapse onto hands and knees in this bubble of solitude.

another mirror. Ben sighs and leans his back against it — it's warm, and that is the most surprising thing about this current situation. he thinks he wants to turn and look into it, but he wants to just rest for a moment. another person suddenly gone, Ben thrust back into isolation, and now shoved into a new layer of this place. it's exhausting.

the warmth feels...familiar. it twists the tissue and muscle behind his sternum, wistful and nostalgic. it's a warmth not unlike Peter...

and with that warmth, an ember of wanting glows, against the exposed cold air of being alone.

Ben's hearing changes — like pressure releasing in his ears, and suddenly, the warmth has gone. he opens his eyes and it's nearly bright in comparison; when he looks around, the room is bare, exposed concrete of some sort lining the four walls around him, and the ceiling and floor connecting it all. he shifts suddenly, breathing audibly. it's all changed again.

there's a very out of place vintage couch, a tall mirror stood up against the wall, and a few other meager furniture bits. Ben stares, his head swimming, as he sits on the floor.

oh, what new, fresh hell is all of this? )

Ivar "The Boneless" Ragnarsson | Vikings

[ragnarsson]

I. Water, Water, Everywhere

[When the storm starts, Ivar's quick to take shelter. Well, as quick as one can get when they're forced to limp on a pair of heavy leg braces. He keeps glancing at the sky as the water stings his face and then turns to icy snow that makes his skin feel raw. Once inside, he just keeps on getting soaked, the water that keeps a steady deluge through the ceiling.

Memories of being tied to a ship's mast, drowning in the ocean, unable to save himself or even try to swim, useless as the effort would be. His mother had seen it happen in a vision and told him he would die. He'd said he didn't care if he died at the time. Brace words, but when it actually happened, he was terrified. Vikings who died at sea didn't go to Valhalla. They went to the hall of the sea goddess Rán, a dull existence filled with none of the honor or glory that the Northmen craved. It's a bad memory, one of the few times Ivar's ever had a fear with a physical form come upon him.

Anyone who finds him will see a different side then the furious Viking warrior who has been presented thus far. Instead, he's a lot more subdued as he huddles in front of a mirror once he figures out that they're the only way to survive this torrential downpour. His leg braces are taken off for the moment, his form shivering from the cold with his hair plastered to his face as he mutters to himself.]

Ugh. Watn. Watn allt.

['Ugh. Water. Water everywhere.' He's removed his vest and arm braces, wringing it out, attempting to dry at least one article of clothing. He keeps rubbing his hands together like they're cold, but really what he's trying to do is remove any water still clinging to his skin. He's from a damp, cold country and knows a chill can kill a lot faster then the water itself can ever drown someone. Anyone who approaches will find him reverting to his fierce behavior rather quickly, though he doesn't seem in the mood to fight or stab, a rarity in its own right.]

II. Changing Sides

[He's beginning to wonder if this place isn't some test ground for Ragnarok. Storms that don't end, the world seeming to dissolve into itself; these are all signs of the world's end in all the stories he's heard. All they need now are some giant wolves and a fire giant or two.

But he barely has a chance to come to terms with the world's disintegration. When he looks up, there's a mirror with someone else on the other side. Before he can take that in, there's a feeling of wrongness which leaves him feeling like the wind has been knocked out of him. It might take him a moment to discover that he's traveled to the sunny side with the other person now where he once was. Or to realize there's now someone with him on the moon side. Either way, there's a blink of surprise, and then a single laconic word in terms of greeting.]

Halló.

[At least that's one word that doesn't require much translating.]

III. Escape Room

[Ivar's not sure how he got here. He'd closed his eyes for a single moment and now he was in a room that looked like a cellar, if there was ever a cellar built that didn't have stairs leading out of it. He's lucky he'd just put his leg braces back on right before he'd be transported to this strange room.

He limps around it, looking over every inch, his hackles raised as he keeps feeling the sense of something or someone watching him. Ivar's a predator through and through. He dislikes the feeling that there's something else out there watching him. It makes the usually patient warrior feel fidgety, more in mind then body. He wants out of this place and he wants out now.

Then he finds the mirror, a long oval one propped up against an stack of boxes. Really? Another damn mirror? Really, there were far better uses for glass then this, and he would be having words about the senselessness of using them with whichever demented god had designed this place if he ever got the chance.

After already communicating with people already using this method, he's less surprised then he would be otherwise to find a face staring back at him. Instead, he pushes an overstuffed, high-backed chair closer to the reflective shattered glass sitting in the frame and sits down in it. Might as well be in as little pain as possible while they figure this stuff out. He slumps forward, leaning on the crutch he's still holding, giving a broad shrug as if to say 'Have you experienced as much weird shit as I have lately?']

LOGAN | MARVEL

[snikthatch]

i. hold it together - labyrinth - open

The dust and the strange fixed moon had been bad enough. The storm had been worse, freezing rain and water rising around him, and he wasn't afraid, he'd lost the ability to be afraid a long time ago, but the thought of plunging into the dark water, metal bones weighing him down, a slow and painful death as his lungs and heart exploded, healed, exploded again --

Nah.

So he'd headed inside. And then the world had broken.

The stench of reality rotting coats his tongue, the back of his throat, along with the taste of acid bile. He's already retched up what little he'd found to eat, the swooping vertigo and the uneasiness of his healing factor playing his body like a worn-out fiddle.

He isn't so much walking along the corridors as lurching from wall to wall, digging his fingers into the walls to stay upright, clawing out handfuls of splinters and rotten plaster. The sun glints through the windows, fracturing light off of the mirrors that line the halls and spraying it into his eyes, so he has to squint them almost shut.

This isn't hell. He's been to hell. But this must be pretty damn close.

ii. fractures - escape room - open

At first, Logan tries breaking the mirrors, mostly because he can. And because he feels like it. And because it's satisfying to break some part of this maddening reality.

He's tried attacking the walls, flying at them with teeth and claws like a rat in a trap, but the wounds he makes heal up around him. He's starting to realise how annoying that is.

Eventually he subsides, exhausted, mind and body running on empty. He kneels in the middle of the room he's ended up in, hands palm-up on his thighs, and closes his eyes. Tries to scrape up an old meditation technique, imagining Mariko's voice in his ear, telling him to be calm.

Just be calm.

ii.

[itselbitch]

Usually when you walk into a room, you don't expect to blink and suddenly be somewhere else. So that's a great fucking trick right there, evil-wasteland hell-city. Thank you. So Much. Eliot is eternally grateful for being completely displaced in the fraction of a second, but at least this time it wasn't three inches above the ground of the place he's found himself.

Which apparently has one very aggressive X-man somehow still looking extremely menacing while meditating, but maybe like how some people have resting bitch face, Logan just has resting honey badger face. He's about to leave Logan to it when Eliot realizes there is no exit. He sighs woefully.

"Well this is just. Perfect."

benedict dearborn | original | open to all

[fumitory]

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death—
[ shit weather | open | survival, possible injury nursing, endless possibilities ]

( it suddenly becomes like every natural disaster flick from the turn of the century: torrential downpour, blizzards, and if that wasn't exciting enough for you, spirals of harsh wind teetering just on the edge of genuine tornados. rain whips around hard enough to cut exposed skin, or freezes halfway down and sticks in a mushy sleet. everything about this place has been...moderately tolerable, so far. the food isn't great, when it can be found (and it can, but it's no buffet,) and shelter is such a transitory thing, but this...

this is a lot.

Ben has taken to wearing a large run of canvas, once a drop cloth for artistry or heavy materials working, to keep some of the elements away, and above that...the projectiles getting caught up in the wind. from a distance, Ben is non-description, grey on grey, mostly formless. the added appeal to the camouflage is evading the shadows, which now deform and twist out of shape with the wind, cork-screwing violently. Ben sure as hell doesn't want to encounter one of those, with that kind of attitude.

yours is the first person he's seen in a sizable stretch of time. Ben dares to undrape his head to get a better view, but has to throw his arm up over his face with suddenness — rocks and pieces of glass sweep up against his side, sticking in through the canvas tarp like darts.

Christ, Ben hisses desperately, and watches the cyclone of wind and debris loom heavily, leaning in the direction of this other wayward soul. the wind isn't deafening, but groans soundlessly like a bass, almost too-ominously quiet. )

—Get down! ( Ben shouts, praying his voice carries across the couple yards' distance between himself and yours, just as shattered pieces of wood are sunk into the sides of structures nearby. Ben's sprinting for it toward you, stranger, but he probably can't beat the wind... )

I will fear no evil, for thou art with me;
[ the locked room | open | any escape option, mirror tricks, anxiety, problem-solving ]

( though there is nothing inherently nerve-wracking about the room — Ben has checked the walls, the second-hand-store-grade vintage settee, under the equally dingy floor rug, everything. he can't find a single suggestion of any traps, anything dangerous, nothing. aside from aunt edna's style of furniture, the room itself is oddly out of place: stony, concrete walls, matching floor, matching high ceiling, too far to reach. the room is about as well-lit as one would be with windows during the day, with no interior lights on, but Ben...can't find a light source. it's the strangest thing.

well, perhaps not the strangest thing. what might be called 'strangest' is that he doesn't know how he got in here, and cannot for the life of him determine how to get out. he's tried shattering the greyed and cracked mirror here on the floor, stood up against the wall, alas, nothing. Ben is trying not to panic. trying not to. doesn't mean that it's going very well...

Ben is very adamantly (nervously) scribbling something in pen on his forearm, until he spots movement in the mirror, just by happenstance as he glances up to chase his spiraling thoughts. he bolts up, sleeve sagging back down his wrist, as he grasps for the mirror's frame. )

Oh, thank Christ— hey, over here, er— the mirror, just to your left— no no, left. Yes, hello.

will match prose or brackets.
find me @ dearlybeheaded,
crybaby#8643, or ghoulette
on the game's discord.
feel free to throw me curveballs. i ain't afraid.

the locked room.

[itselbitch]

[ he's near the point of pacing, but thankfully, the wound on his stomach disagrees with him enough to make him just. edge along the walls instead trying to figure out why he's stuck in another fucking room with no doors. there's got to be some trick to these things other than the fucking mirror which he already stood in front of for ten minutes and tried out figure out earlier.

it's been like half an hour since then, and still no luck. when he passes in front of the mirror this time though-- ] What--

[ he pauses, glancing around the room in confusion. the voice continues, calling him to move back--no no, left.--look, it's a fucking mirror, okay. it's always going to be reversed for one side of it. ]

Hello? [ that's when he get's a good look, a beautiful face to a beautiful voice. hello, indeed. ] Hi.

[ he offers a small smile, a graceful curl of his fingers in a wave of greeting. ] Please tell me there's a way out on your side of this-- [ sorry, he has to double check for a second ] --mirror. Thing.

Vin Venture ( mistborn ) all prompts open

[skaa]

( a ) - escaping the elements ( no, one doesn't exactly plan to get thrust into a whole other world where the world itself seems hell-bent on trying to batter your spirits into submission. but if Vin could have planned this, she would have brought more vials. currently, she clutches a vial in her hands as she tries to outrun the storm that hounds at her. what had been bearable rain now turns into ice that pelts against her skin. her cloak wasn't made for protection against the elements. it does nothing to lessen the pain of each droplet turned to ice shard that pricks her skin. then the winds pick up. it takes everything in Vin not to down the vial she holds in her hand. pewter would help her bear this. pewter would make the cold not so biting and the shards less piercing. but somehow, Vin suspects these sorts of dangers won't be the last. she grits her teeth and darts towards a door. any door at this point. there's only one in sight. she slips and slides against the ground. she wishes that was intentional, but without pewter to aid her balance the elements win in bringing her down. she uses her natural grace to at least use the slipping to get her the rest of the way to the door. then she thuds against it as she tries to open it. ) Of course. ( she snarls as she tries the handle and rattles it. something thick is pushed up against the other side. ) If anyone is in there, some help would be appreciated! ( she yells over the winds as she slams her shoulder into the only nearby door to try to pry it open. ) ( b ) - into the labyrinth ( Vin hasn't really stopped moving in awhile. she's getting tired, but there's nowhere to rest. even the inside of this place seems to want to kill her. the waters rise up past her knees, teeth chattering in the silence as she sloshes onward. she climbs out of the water on a desk or a cabinet any chance she gets. but sometimes she has to brave the water to move on. she just needs the labyrinth to slope up. something to get her further out of the climbing depths. instead it seems to go down, plunging deeper and deeper. she's almost certain she's hit a dead end, destined to drown in a damn hallway. after everything, this is where it ends?! then the waters recede. they seem to flow backwards and Vin lifts her head in shocked silence. she tries to look around for any sign of what's happening outside. instead she finds a mirror in front of her. then she hears the breathing. ) Who's there? ( she calls out, though she doesn't yet look away from the mirror. maybe she can see the person breathing in the reflection. ) ( c ) - escaping reality ( crawling through the mirror wasn't the most brilliant ideas, but Vin is ever the person to find out more by going in deeper. and the hole did perfectly fit her. now this room, though... a. it's large and there's very little light. she's not even certain she's left the mirror-hole until she finally sees a glow. by that point, it's too late to turn back. the room has opened up too wide for her to find where the mirror-hole entrance had been. she doesn't search that long for it anyway. after all, there's a light to follow. underneath a table she shoves away she finds a mirror. she kneels on the floor, hovering over the mirror as she peers into another room filled with light compared to hers. eventually, she sees another soul wander into the room. ) Hello? ( she tries, not certain if the other person can hear or see her at all. b. she's lost track of the rooms. one room she broke out of. then she fell into another room. then she crawled through the cracks in another. she's not even certain of the order she's done each room in. they're starting to blend together. at least this room is decently lit. with a heavy sigh, she finds the next mirror and sits down, leaning her back against it. she waits patiently, hoping someone eventually shows up. that's about the only thing she's figured out so far in all the rooms. there's always another person, and she can never find even a crack without someone else there. ) ( d ) - wildcard ( open for any and all other prompts. message me at magickal on plurk or vaineglorie#1372 on discord if you have any questions. )

c-a

[swordliest]

[The other room is a dining room: a little, cramped one suited to a modest house or cottage. Carver hasn't noticed the mirror yet, lying abandoned on the floor against the wall; he's more preoccupied with where the exit should be: a door, or window, or something.

He twists at the sound of her voice, and has to search a second or two to find the source.

He's seen people on the opposite sides of mirrors before. He's even communicated with them before. But he's never heard them before.]

Hello? [Echoing her, but a little more aggressive, a little more urgent. He takes a few impulsive steps toward the mirror, and then stops, warily, not coming any closer.] Can you actually hear me?

william | westworld | ota

[omniavincit]

i. i am silver and exact | maze

The wind's shrieking is unreal. Buildings bend like trees, the ground rumbles like a belly-laugh, and William's sense of reality turns inside out so many times that for an insane moment he stops and wonders: fuck, where did I park. He loses his coat—it flaps off like some newly liberated bird—and staggers through the first door he can wrench open.

He breathes out. The lights are dim—maybe they're failing. Water sloshes in from somewhere, soaks his boots before receding. He hurries into the hallway.

There's piano music playing in the distance, static-distorted but implacable. No matter how far he walks, no matter where he turns, it neither fades nor grows louder. It just persists, an endless loop. It's not until he starts to hum along that he finds the first radio—his hand brushing against it. As though it'd been there all along.

BUTTON UP YOUR OVERCOAT, it counsels upon being picked up. WHEN THE WIND IS FREE

“Thanks,” he mutters, teeth chattering. The room he's in—looks like a train platform, sans tracks, sans train, sans old gum and the smell of urine. He props himself against an inexplicable turnstile and frowns at the radio in his hand. “Billy,” it singsongs, and he drops it. He knows that voice, her voice, the early-morning roughness to it.

The radio spits out a few sparks—as though clearing its throat—and continues: “Billy boy, you never sleep this late.”

“Fuck me,” William says, at the same time his own voice issues from the radio, younger, to his ears. Blearily playful. “Stop, I hate...shit, what time is it?”

Her laugh spills out of the radio. William drops to the floor, twists the dial. Hits the off switch. "Negative," the radio snaps. "Negative," another chimes in. "Negative, the pattern is full."

Feel free to come across this mess now or later, when he's set one radio atop the turnstile, scrounged up two others, and—actively shivering—stares intently at them. He may not even turn at the sound of someone else approaching, or may greet them with a “shhh!”


ii. i have no preconceptions | bad luck

He lands on a trampoline.

It's broken.

William can't muster a sound, let alone an intelligible word. Something—his body—makes a popping noise and pain streaks down his shoulder. He opens his eyes—it hadn't mattered before, in the dark—to snow swirling around him. With a long, miserable groan he shifts to his side, and as though lying in wait, the trampoline jerks beneath him, collapsing with a rusty screech. He slides off into the street, gets unsteadily to his feet.

His boot's untied.

His shoulder's dislocated. He spent the past who-knows-how-long hurtling through blackness, first struggling, then yelling, the just wishing for it to end. He's said fuck so many times it doesn't seem worth saying again.

And William gingerly lowers himself to a seat on the edge of the trampoline, one of the shadows moves.


iii. whatever i see i swallow immediately | mirrors

a. 1st attempt

He remembers it—feels it, sometimes, like the ache of a past injury. “Unsettling” he'd call it—not necessarily a bad thing. His skin had crawled as he stared into the void behind the mirror; his nerves had felt, finally, like he had a use for them. He's thought, over and over, about what would have happened. The noise he'd heard, the coin he'd thrown. The mirror sealing up the moment he looked away.

This time, he crawls in.

...and emerges in a lounge. The furniture is ornate and coated with ash. Empty candy dishes sit on tables made to support little else.

He feels it again.

Come across William: pressing a hand to the mirror, scraping the blunt edge of his knife the length of the wall, or, at some point, plucking a coin from one of the candy dishes and flipping it.

b. 4th-ish attempt

He doesn't bother with the furniture or the walls—any of the trappings. His hair's a soggy mess but he's outfitted himself with a puffy jacket with growling cartoon bear on it. One sleeve dangles empty at his side. William's gaze is fixed on the mirror as he moves it around, rotates it this way and that. You may get an inadvertent close-up of his face as he peers into it.

If he catches sight of someone else, he'll take a step back. “Hello. Hey.” He breaks into a small, private smile. Raises a hand in a not-quite-wave.

Tilt your own mirror just so and you may see—or think you see—his ring finger disappear, a ragged nub in its place.

iv. wildcard!

ii.

[itselbitch]

It's really not a pleasant sound, like the sound of a plastic bag straining from being torn or when a dumpster truck runs its compactor and an unfortunate piece of board moans in protest as it's crushed to pieces. The hairs raise sharply on the back of his neck, and he has to fight a shudder as he huffs out in discomfort, puff white breath clinging to the air as it floats off and away. He's turning his head before he thinks, trying to figure out where the sound originated. A dissonant screech slithers after. It's down the road to his right.

"Hello?" The shadows usually don't make fuss with the surroundings. It must be another person who's been stranded here too. "Is. Is someone over there?"

Eliot heads over, every other step clipped by the tap of his cane against the pavement. He raises his right hand, gesturing a few poppers to prepare a defense. Just in case.

"Are you hurt?"

Daenerys Targaryen | ota

[decisiveconquest]

I. Labryinth

(She has endured the searing heat of seemingly endless deserts; she has felt the piercing cold of ice and snow; she even lived through a long passage between continents on a wooden and, by modern standards, ill-equipped ship. But this torrential rain is new to her and she knows better than to let herself become completely soaked. Logically the best idea seems to get indoors, yet that only seems to multiply her problems and she climbs higher and runs further, losing her way in hallways that have no right to be so long or complex.

She can't run forever and though she fears the water rising to engulf her, she has to stop against one of the walls, her breathing heavy and the pale strands of her hair stuck to her skin.)

Can anyone hear me? My name is Daenerys and if we've spoken, I would very much like to see you.

(Seeing anyone right now would be comforting. Her hearing must be playing tricks on her because she is almost certain she hears...whispering.)

I will help you as much as I can.

II. Mirror

(The mirrors are unnerving and so Daenerys tries not to look into them. She imagines there must be some sort of magic contained in them and if she peers into the glass, her situation will become more perilous. Or more confusing. Both outcomes she can do without.

However when her wandering keeps bringing her back to the same room with the same mirror, she understands that she must be brave. Mastering her shivering, she approaches the glass and peers into it...

Only to see an X. Her brow furrows in frustration and she raises her voice again.]

Do you think this is funny? Is this some kind of game? You like to torture us, but for what purpose?

(It takes her a few moments to finally touch the X and, of course, the mirror rushes away like quicksilver, causing her to jump. When she looks at the gaping hole left behind, she thinks she might have preferred the mirror that mocked her.)

I - does westerosi = english? or is she speaking a different language?

[snikthatch]

[ The dust and the strange, unchanging moon-filled sky had been bad enough without the rain. Not that Logan minds rain. At least it changes the smell of things, making some scents sharper, bringing out the breath of wildness in the dirt. But when it rains and keeps raining, rising to a dark flood that threatens to sweep him under, the only thing that can still (probably) kill him -- he gets a little antsy. When it starts turning to snow in places, it's worse.

Trying the radios hadn't worked to help him figure out where he was or, more to the point, when, but at least he got some time to drink. The burn of the cheap whiskey warms his skin as he prowls through the hallways, seeking some kind of answer to the questions that are stacking up about this place.

A voice brings him out of his thoughts. Familiar, from not long ago.

Logan heads towards it, down a few shallow metal steps that turn into a hallway. He spots her against a wall at the end of the corridor, pale and smelling of rain. ]

Hey. [ He lifts the hand not holding the mostly empty whiskey bottle. ] You ok?