notmydiagnosis: (mask - I WORKED HARD ON THIS THING.)
Dr. Jonathan Crane (тнє ѕ¢αяє¢яσω) ([personal profile] notmydiagnosis) wrote in [community profile] ataraxionlogs2012-05-10 11:26 pm


CHARACTERS: Scarecrow, everyone under the sun.
LOCATION: Oxygen gardens / spread out from there
WARNINGS: Crazy paranoia. There's going to be a lot of people getting triggered, violence, etc
SUMMARY: Crane can't wait any longer. Takes place from Friday the 11th to midnight on Monday!
NOTES: And it begins! Plotting posts were here and here. I took the advice of a few lovely people and made this a catch-all post but feel free to use communications/the network as you see fit. Most importantly have fun and if I've missed something, please please please PM this account or plurk me about it at realthingshakes! This is my first player plot EVER so I'm trying to make things as simple as I can. And just in case I fuck up royally, the anon-enabled HMD is over here. shhh I'm paranoid

The mask felt good, it felt in place. It felt perfect. And that's what this plan was--sweet perfection layered in the form of fear and paranoia and violence. Chaos.

Scarecrow was going to be severely disappointed if no one died tonight. And he was Scarecrow now, not the polite and courteous (and ridiculously uninteresting) Dr. Jonathan Crane. That man was gone now--he'd gone the moment the Bat-Man had dragged him to Arkham after Rachel, the moment he was a patient in his own asylum.

Instead, it was Scarecrow now. Suit sharp, noose dangling over his tie, the manic stitching of a hastily sewn burlap sap with a gas mask in it. It was more than just a simple mask, it was almost another personality. It was everything the silly, bullied Jonathan Crane couldn't be, the quiet, dearly, fearful revenge he'd longed for for so long.

He willed himself to stop shaking. There were so many theories--so many people that might react to fear differently. This was Scarecrow's petting zoo now, the Tranquility's passengers his pets. He wants nothing more than to watch them squirm and scream and cry and panic; misses the way the body stiffens in terror, wants to see fight or flight reflexes kicking in. He had four canisters--two of which he had given to his young apprentice, the others in his own possession--four canisters of beautiful, raw fear.

He'd been expecting the vents upon his arrival--and with no Batman to stop him, he thought he was in the clear. Even picked up a few interested parties. There were friends of Batman, yes, but the sadistic smirk on his face never left as he finally released the canisters, laying them near the vents. Scarecrow turned to Tate, voice transformed by the mask:

"We have work to do."
circumitus: What if cement was really a rainbow color they just secretly paint it grey so as not to distract drivers? (what if...)

[ Oxygen Guardens -- OTA ]

[personal profile] circumitus 2012-05-11 05:56 am (UTC)(link)
It didn't help, in Rey's case, that she frequented the Oxygen Gardens as regularly as she did. She spent more time there than she did in the solitude of her own room. She didn't know why, but there was something soothing about the isolation of nature.

She had been half-asleep. After awhile, she realized that more often than not, she could never fall asleep completely. It was always a sudden, unexpected panic in a lack of air that jolted her back to consciousness.

That moment, she willed herself awake. She'd been sleeping while sitting over the ground, legs crossed and hands over her knees. A scream called her back from that cold place.

Something else, odd as it might be, lingered in the air.

She could hear the distant grinding of organs. A wet sound of bones crushing and skin flaying. She closed her eyes again. The smells intensified. The sounds deafened. The veins on the back of her eyelids pulsed with hot and flowing blood.

The sad part was, none of these things were new and exciting to her. Rey had become used to hearing, seeing, smelling, feeling things that didn't actually exist. Sometimes, it was louder than others, and more uncontrollable. The lack of control now was unsettling.

Slowly, she reopened her eyes. The surrounding sounds had yet to fade. She looked around, eyes scanning the gardens, which began to carry an odd, red hue and steam rising up from the surface of the ground beneath her bare feet.

handelaar: (let's get down to business)

Re: [ Oxygen Guardens -- OTA ]

[personal profile] handelaar 2012-05-12 05:16 am (UTC)(link)
He was working his way through his growing panic, trying to ignore it as best he could, only to focus on one thing, and one thing only: make his way to a quiet spot. That was the first step.

So focused on that goal, in fact, that he didn't notice that that quiet spot? It was already occupied. It was only once he came close that he saw her there, against the wall. While she seemed innocuous enough, the surroundings weren't.

The wind was howling, water starting to drip down the walls already, to pool at his feet. He could hear it as he walked, the familiar splish-splash of rain against his boots... But this time, it was only a matter of time before they had to move.

She was innocent in all this, and with that in mind he approached her, intent on warning her. Dragging her out of this mess.
Edited (icons) 2012-05-12 05:16 (UTC)
circumitus: She literally cut my boxers off with a 8" chef's knife and had her way with me. (tomorrow never knows)

[personal profile] circumitus 2012-05-12 05:35 am (UTC)(link)
Everything begins and ends in fire. Where she stands, it's followed by the smell of something that's been cooking for a long time. Burnt insides. Live flames. Simmering, tortured, screams...

She doesn't realize it, but she's been itching the back of her own hand. Soon, the skin should start to peel like an orange. Underneath it all, she feels nothing. Horror, dread, fear. Nothing.

It walks among the flames.

Standing, it approaches her. Clothes scorched, faceless features raw, teeth crooked, white eyes melting out their sockets. It's a corpse that shouldn't be standing. She thinks for a moment how much more humane it would be to put it out of its misery, but that's not what she's here for. She's...

She doesn't know what she's here for.

A purpose. She wants one like someone needs to come up for air.

Words hollow, throat hitched -- her back presses up to the wall as the corpse is near. What does a dead thing want from her?
handelaar: (hold up a sec)

[personal profile] handelaar 2012-05-12 06:32 am (UTC)(link)
She doesn't do anything but stand, against the walls, against the dykes - commendable, honorable, but not anything he would recommend now that the storm was this bad.

Scratches at something that would soon peel away, if she were lost to it. The waves, the rain, the never ending pounding of surf upon the living, determined to strip away everything they all held dear, this woman included. For a moment he imagines her as just that, a slowly shredding corpse at the bottom of the sea, sunk and trapped beneath structures far greater than her own. Gives his head a shake, because they're not dying yet.

He holds out his hand, intent on pulling her out of it, intent on making up where he's failed before.

[personal profile] circumitus 2012-05-12 08:18 am (UTC)(link)
She's guarded now. The charred remains of their environs are smoldering and she knows it can't be real, or happening at all, even if it feels real.

Was this body real? How about that hand, extending out to her now? She tries to meet the corpse, see its stare, but they've melted out of its face. Her eyes widen for a moment as she takes another step away from him... it... Her back sliding down the wall, she moves sideways, away. What she sees is not a man among a storm, but a human torch reaching out to her in the fiery aftermath of something horrible that's happened.

Because of her.

Somehow, it's her fault. She doesn't remember, but she feels it. There's only a familiar word that she can place to it, and that's an awful guilt.

I deserve to die...
handelaar: (oh fuck it's a hikikomori)

[personal profile] handelaar 2012-05-13 06:20 am (UTC)(link)
At his offer she backs away, skews sideways. It's odd. An odd movement to make, not natural for a human, and once that thought presents itself he no longer sees her as human. Things shift, shadows become shapes become planes, and he snatches his arm back to himself before those planes can splinter and pin him down, before they can coalesce into shadow once more and choke him.

Either one will trap a person, but the worst is that he's already caught up in this - trapped, trapped, trapped.
circumitus: you started throwing frozen shot glasses at people and you kept saying "it's fine, they melt." (wave goodbye to your troubles)

[personal profile] circumitus 2012-05-13 07:17 pm (UTC)(link)
It moves away. In a flickering ripple, she sees the face of a man among the faceless mask. The way he moves and withdraws from her is equally peculiar to her.

Corpses should not be afraid. They are corpses and don't have lives to be concerned with. At least, that's how she thought it worked. But then, the only thing remotely to a walking corpse she had ever known was herself.

She opens her mouth and tries to speak, but all that comes out are garbled tongues. Her breath rasps against her throat, haaahhh as she struggles to choke the words out.

But nothing.
handelaar: (let's get down to business)

[personal profile] handelaar 2012-05-15 05:07 am (UTC)(link)
One breath, nothing more than a hiss, but all he hears is choking and suddenly he forgets that he saw her as a threat (the fact that she wasn't before, also forgotten) and sees her as a citizen. She's choking and more than anything, more than his own safety, he needs to get her out of it.

Watching someone else drown is just as bad, maybe worse.

Once he knows that he needs to move it's like he can't move fast enough. He doesn't. Every step forward takes effort, bending down, reaching a hand down to touch her - it's like wading through quicksand and so, so difficult.
circumitus: We just bobbed for apples in a bucket full of jungle juice. so, a casual tuesday night. (oh you know)

[personal profile] circumitus 2012-05-15 09:24 am (UTC)(link)
Hold your breath.

Don't think. Don't breathe. Don't feel.

She feels her body on fire. Every inch of her, the skin on the surface, the bits that remain, tear her apart from the inside and out. Her arms fold over her chest, hands clenched up into fists and teeth gnashed.

Finally, a sharp breath of air, even though it's more like swallowing ash. Corpse-fingers reach out to touch her, and all that comes out in a startled gasp; eyes shut tight, as if to just will the presence away.

Go away go away go away GO AWAY...
handelaar: (um no)

[personal profile] handelaar 2012-05-23 06:43 am (UTC)(link)
She's trying so, so damn hard to breathe. He's heard it all his life, fought it all his life. Every sound she makes fights its way to his ears, sounds like it's clawing through water and surfacing in jagged little pieces, tiny terrified bits of herself, clipped audio that makes more impact than frozen ocean spray ever did.

He curls his fingers into something, into anything - she's scared and he has only a moment to grab her and he can't move quickly enough-

As soon as his fingers have a hold (onto something, anything, everything) he pulls both their bodies back, up, against the ocean, against the currents, tides, roar and push and pull, salt in his mouth and grit in his teeth. Up. Out. Splutter something pretty, expel seawater across the deck. Get it out, get it overboard.
circumitus: I have big plans. I'm learning spanish this month. (i need an office)

[personal profile] circumitus 2012-06-02 09:50 am (UTC)(link)
It takes her by the wrist.

Bones clench and dig hard claws around her own skin, but the feeling is both numb and faraway.

Through clenched teeth, she feels nothing.

Between the screaming flames and the wailing of dead souls, she is paralyzed. Too many of them. So much going on around her. But that is war.

Don't be afraid. You are the Salamander -- you eat the fire.

She does not move, but tries to make sense of the flickering realms that shape itself between reality and illusion. The fine lines blur between the two, a fine line on the edge, revealing flesh and blood instead of bone.

...An actual person?
handelaar: (why the hell is austria already here)

welp most ironic tag considering

[personal profile] handelaar 2012-06-09 05:19 am (UTC)(link)
She doesn't even splutter, not a gasp, no fight nor cry against - anything. Any of this.

Just what did he pull up?

Torn between letting go and holding on, he stares right back and tries to make sense of it, because while he feels warmth beneath his hands he sure as hell doesn't see it in her eyes.

There's something, intelligent, present... but it's not the heat, the spark, the fight that he's expecting.