synflux | closed.

how many memshares am i writing, stay tuned

[ The ride back to Las Vegas is a solemn affair, the brief moments of peace during rest stops spent hopping from van to van checking up on friends and other companions. But between the relentless heat, prolonged exhaustion from being out in the sun, and the sand from the violent sandstorms in the center of the desert, Wriothesley finds his eyes drooping closed more often than not, the physical drag on his body forcing him to slow down and sometimes even stop completely as his mind is lulled into a temporary daydream.

Though there's nothing pleasant or dreamy about this one, the harsh desert sun replaced instead by a solemn indoor nighttime. Specifically, the inside of a moderate family home, sparsely decorated but well-lived in. What should have been a pleasant sight is marred by the mess of books and trinkets on the ground, haphazardly tossed about, as well as a pile of shattered glass in the doorway to the kitchen.

Above all else is the scent of blood, metallic and heavy in the air. ]

[ Marcille is in the cool, empty dark somewhere. All that's in front of her is a door with golden light leaking from behind it.

To a Fontanian, the steel door is nondescript—its usual deep turqoise with golden hardware, windows set with clouded blue glass accented with golden, uniform, geometric patterns. To Marcille, it's one of the strangest ones she's seen. The fact that it's a single door at standard height is all that betrays it as more commonplace than luxury. Before she can contemplate it more, her hand moves on its own to open it. That golden light soon swallows everything, and without a single step forward, Marcille opens her eyes and sees the inside of a house.

A home. Her mind supplies the word before she can think it. She looks around at the furniture, the upholstery, the pictures on the walls, the toys and books and tchotchkes broken all over the floor, the little betrayals of who might live here.

(Another weird fact about this dream: it's incredibly hot. Marcille doesn't realize that this is residual from the desert heat. She's currently passed out on her bed in the van, still sweating through her desert clothes after running out into the desert. The person she saved from drowning in the sand is now in the custody of the medical trucks.)

More prominent than anything: it's eerily quiet here, and there's a familiar scent on the air. It's the only thing she recognizes in this place. Dread walks up her back like fingertips, tickles the back of her scalp. She knows what she might see if she walks through the kitchen doorway. She also knows that she has to do so if she wants to leave this place. ]

H-... Hello?

[ Marcille's voice is small and shaky. She carefully maneuvers over and around the broken things on the floor, her fists brought up in front of her chest. She's heading towards the kitchen—where the gory smell sharpens, assailing her through her nose, warm against her open eyes. ]

Is anyone here?

[ There's no reply—at least not right away.

The scent of blood might've hit Marcille first but the sight of it follows not long afterwards, pools of crimson red that stretch across the floorboards and run dark rivers through cracks and down counters. Cups, broken dishes, forgotten silverware decorate the ground in an unholy mosaic, clear signs of the struggle that had taken place less than an hour prior. Nails, too, lie useless on the ground, dangerous obstacles for Marcille to carefully step around.

Though more obvious, more alarming, than all of that is the figure (figures) that lies prone on the ground in the spreading pools of blood, ugly red flesh and gaping cuts peeking through torn fabric, the occasional limb bent at an unnatural angle. Three bodies, two adult and one child, splayed across the floor, all of them still and unmoving.

—No, that's not quite true. There's a slow rise and fall to the hunched back of the child, a tremor that runs through his arms, and the faint sound of breathing as he gasps for breath. His hands clutch around something unseen. Nearby, a stained knife glints in the light. ]

[ The chaos reaches her the moment she turns the corner into the kitchen. Everything litters the ground‐broken drawers, cabinet doors, dishware, cutlery, food, pieces of wooden chairs, the broken halves of the kitchen table shoved up against a wall. But the mess is hardly the worst of it.

As soon as she catches sight of the streaks and pools and spatters of blood, Marcille's hands immediately fly up to clutch over her mouth, her eyes round with horror. It's a grisly scene that makes her stagger backward, and only then does she catch the flash of a nail across the floor. She follows their trail up to the mangled bodies spread across the kitchen floor.

Her stomach lurches and burns, bile reaching up her innards before she forces it back down. If she hadn't seen so much gore and death in her lifetime, her reaction would have been much worse.

Instead, she slowly steps inside, crushing broken pieces of everything underfoot. Her eyes dart from the floor to the bodies, tracing their open wounds and their twisted angles, joints turned backward. Whoever did this didn't just want these people dead. They wanted them to suffer.

That's when she sees the young boy's bloodstained body move, pulsing slowly with every breath, arms shaking presumably with horror. Marcille, naive as she is, rushes to meet him immediately, ignoring the pain—phantom pain, but she doesn't know this—that bolts up her feet as she keeps her balance. ]

Oh my— Oh thank goodness! You're alive!

[ She has no idea who this boy is. Someone lived through this awful, terrible mess. She has to save him. That's all that matters. ]

[ He hasn't dreamed of that day in a long, long time. It's a footnote in his history now, faded words in the margins that he chooses not to dwell on until something brushes up directly against them. But here he kneels now, unaware that all of this is nothing more than a too-real memory, hands once again wet and sticky with blood, the pain of too many cuts and deep bruising beginning to dull at the edges as his mind struggles to cling to consciousness.

And then a voice snaps him back to alertness, unfamiliar, high-pitched. He doesn't comprehend the words and barely glances at the face, operating entirely on instinct as the storm of his emotions bubbles violently back of the surface. All of it - the anger, the betrayal, the horror of knowing that everything he'd believed had been nothing more than a lie - kicks into overdrive and he scrabbles towards her, snarling as he curls his hands into fists, the empty nailgun strapped to his wrist now relegated to a blunt force weapon. There's blood streaked across the front of his shirt, the gashes across his chest and throat, and splattered across his face...an eerie complement to the manic look in a pair of familiar grey-blue eyes. ]

Get away from me!

[ He makes it all of three steps before he passes out from blood loss—only to be shunted into a completely different scene. ]

[ It happens instantly, as soon as the last syllable leaves her mouth. The erratic flashes of movement, the angry shake of his limbs, the way he sucks in his breath and pours out blood from every wound as he pivots and claws towards her, brandishing his nail gun like a hammer poised to strike—Marcille is frozen with terror, the sights of this crazed, infuriated, bloody young man sears into her memory. Him and the rings of color in his irises, almost glowing against the backdrop of blood on his face.

Somewhere in her subconscious, the image of those eyes wrestles with her memories. She's seen them before, but her fear keeps her synapses from firing, the connection failing her for the moment.

At the last moment, she recoils and screams, shielding herself with her arms. She loses her balance as she staggers again, falling backward, and in the middle of that fall, the scene suddenly changes. ]

Edited 2024-06-01 16:05 (UTC)

[ Despite his best intentions to stay away, there's only so much space between the campervans as they all camp out for the night. It's not his fault that tonight his van is (unknowingly) parked next door to the other man, or that this particular night is when his implant decides to glitch.

(Sorry, Verg, for dragging you into this.)

This happens to be a street in a residential neighborhood, rows of houses lining either side, the streetlamps lit to chase away the darkness. A picturesque nighttime scene, except for the small crowd of people milling nervously outside. One of them peels away and hurries over to where Vergilius stands (who is, by the way, now dressed in a new pair of duds) to frantically tug on his sleeve and murmur under their breath. ]

There's something happening in the house at the end of the way, I think a-a thief might have broken in! Please, you have to go stop whoever it is!

[What....what is happening?]

[What the FUCK is he wearing?]

[Vergilius whips his head around, disoriented, but the tug on his sleeve is enough to hold his very confused attention.]

....Me?

[Why him? Vergilius grits his teeth, pulling his arm back, but that crowd out there...If this is some kind of dream, he sure as hell doesn't know what to expect.]

Fine. Fine. Let me see.

[Time to step closer just to see what the hullabaloo is all about.]

[ The crowd parts for him, relieved to see a Figure of Authority™ amongst their ranks. (Sorry Verg, you're basically a cop now.)

There's one house in particular they all seem to be glancing at, a modest family home with a well-kept lawn. Noise comes from inside - shouting, the sound of thrown cutlery, the thud of something heavy being slammed around. None of them are good sounds, made worse by the snippets of muffled conversation that manage to slip through the open doorway. ]

"—raised you, took you in as our own—"

[ An older man's voice, hoarse, followed by a crash and the sound of shattering glass. More muffled shouting, and then a younger voice, higher-pitched and full of rage. ]

"—never cared of any of us, we were just like cattle to you‐"

[ There's another crash, and then a howl of pain. Whatever's going on in there is clearly messy. ]

[Great. Being a cop. Could this day get any better?]

[He really shouldn't think that, because what he hears is alarming, indeed. A fight between...parents and child? Maybe?]

[Even if he doesn't want to be here, he feels he can't leave this alone, either.]

[Vergilius moves quickly to the door to throw it open, stalking inside.]

What's going on here-?

[ What's going on here is a scuffle, though perhaps that's putting it lightly. There's blood already pooling on the floor and streaked across the cabinets. Broken china and shards of glass make the kitchen floor something of a maze to walk through.

Two figures stand in front of Vergilius, one small and one much larger, while a third lays prone on the floor, the stillness of her chest a sign that it's already too late for her. Truthfully it's looking almost too late for the remaining two, both as bloody as their surroundings, slashes and cuts across their arms, torsos, faces. ]

"...might as well get rid of you like I did the rest–"

[ Though that's cut off as soon as he catches sight of Vergilius at the door, expression lighting up into one of triumph and relief. ]

Officer! He's gone mad! You have to—

[ Unfortunately, his momentary distraction gives the smaller figure a chance to strike, and with a guttural cry, the child lunges forward, the knife in his hands glinting as it plunges straight into the man's chest. ]

[He's known death so well that the stench of it is familiar to him. The sight, too, seems like an average, everyday occurrence in the City.]

[But the subject here is considerably more rare - a son and a parent? parental figure? whatever - and Vergilius takes it in for the brief moment as his eyes flare, flitting from prone figure to child and adult. The man says that and it strikes a discordant noise, one Vergilius grits his teeth at, and then-]

[Well.]

[That's done.]

[Vergilius stares, before with rapid speed, he goes to yank the child up by the collar, uncaring of the man. His other hand moves to the child's hand to try to dislodge the knife.]

Explain. Did he do something to you?

JUNE

marcille. (cw. blood, death)

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vergilius. (cw. blood, violence, murder)

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ishmael. (cw. psychological and verbal abuse, manipulation, cult behavior, violence, death threats)

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elan. (cw. mentions of child trafficking and murder)

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I promise I'll sit him down

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