PLAYER PLOT: fear is the mind-killer

[fullmoon]

CHARACTERS: You and all your least favorite things.
LOCATION: Shipwide.
WARNINGS: Violence, gore, monsters, psych trauma. (Please warn for any potential triggers—e.g. medical horror, eye stuff, recollection of past sexual trauma—in your subject lines.)
SUMMARY: Boggarts. See the plot post for a full timeline if you want to forward-date; otherwise, watch this space for updates.
NOTES: Whatever happens, however this ends, remember that it's Draco Malfoy's fault.

JAN 22

If you've been paying attention, you should already be on edge. Ward and Resnik have returned without many answers. There's the dead pirate again. The Tranquility is being pursued. People are talking about violent confrontation like it's inevitable, any cycle now. Any day. And now Morgoth is back, somewhere in the corridors.

If you keep an eye out, you won't find him. But you might find something else.

JAN 23

Never mind about Morgoth.

JAN 24

Despite very well-intended claims to the contrary (see above), the mounting evidence suggests that boggarts can be killed. Also, there's probably more than one. Sorry about that.

Comments

heathers why are there so many heathers

[dogbane]

[They have really good gurneys on the Tranquility. Frictionless maglev technology that ostensibly doesn't really look that different to regular wheels, except that it really is faster and locks with more precision and won't get stuck, ever, and it's also very good for ramming haphazardly into weird miniaturized versions of your best friend wearing taffeta and the aroma of incinerated flesh.

It's close to impulse without premeditation; without adequate meditation, probably. A mad scramble forward, then he takes his hands off, eyes bugging out of his head as physics takes care of the rest. Crash.]

I've changed my mind, you look better blonde, [William says, almost falling over as he runs around the gurney and the recuperating boggart, his white coat flapping awkwardly as the wings of a flightless bird.] Never fucking change, Heather. [He reaches out for her hand pls to run away now]

[sweetmotherofgod]

We have more fun, after all.

[See how much fun she's having, her freckles the only parts of her face that aren't drained greenish-pale, whites of her eyes showing all around. She takes that hand, pushes herself off to run while Alessa silently scowls and the wall behind her starts flaking away like peeling paint and floating up to the ceiling.

It's probably not peeling away, Heather thinks vaguely, she probably only thinks it is.

She runs like fuck anyway.]

[dogbane]

What the fuck--

[William's feet pound away underfoot. His coat makes him look like a particularly unbalanced goose trying to take off for flight. His eyes are big in his head. It's fortunate Brad was making him go to the gym so much before; he's barely taller than Heather and might not have been able to keep up otherwise, with the rather reticent month he's had.] --what the fuck--

--kind of superpowers has she got? [He's heard of all Heather's wildest ones, and that had never included levitation. Magical womb, mind-control psycho fog. Who knows what this one can do. He suspects the miniaturized womb doesn't mean proportionate impotence, not with the rate of spoop going on there.]

[sweetmotherofgod]

She's not - she's a projection.

[Not that it really helps, but it's better than nothing. Maybe. While this little spookshow had been floating around, tearing shit up, making people drive off the road, Alessa had been in a hospital bed.]

She can make you see things. Pull things out of your head, turn them into monsters to hurt you. Change you, make you - wrong.

[And how much easier will that be if the person she's changing is technically herself

and she is what's wrong?]

[dogbane]

[There's a flash of confusion in William's face when he twists his head to look at her, his brow knitting in concern. It's easy to be pragmatic and straightforward about the fears of others, naturally. If boggarts adapt the powers wielded by the worst fears of their victims, than a young man trying to escape or defend against boggarts would do well to inquire what those old powers were.]

Heather, [he says. There are fingers around her cheek then, cold because the blood has retreated from his extremities with the panicky eruption of adrenaline.] Oi.

[It's not the best time to stop, but he thinks to totter them around the next corner before they do. Alessa is in Heather's head; it's taken him too many seconds to realize so. He hadn't thought-- well. There hadn't been time to think.] Oi. [He angles his face into view of her. Not that that's very difficult, given they're both vertically itty bitty people.] You've beat her skinny arse before.

[It isn't a question.]