dualislogs | ya gotta wanna be a battering ram

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ya gotta wanna be a battering ram

WHO: The entire dang city.
WHAT: Dualis Days, a week-long summer celebration.
WHERE: Central Square Park and the rest of the city.
WHEN: June 17-23.
WARNINGS: Terrorist violence, likely some blood and injuries. Please warn in individual threads!

June 17; Central Square Park.

Every year for as far back as anyone can remember, the start of summer is heralded by the week-long festival known as Dualis Days. This celebration officially kicks off at midday in the middle of Central Square Park with a commencement speech by the current mayor. This year marks Marcelina Dubanowski's third term as mayor of Dualis; she is an average-sized, middle-aged human-presenting woman with blonde hair styled in a short bob and a plastic, toothy smile that never seems to turn entirely off.

"Welcome, one and all!" she begins, with the practiced cadence of someone who is quite comfortable with public speaking. She invites all citizens, new and old, to spend the next week indulging in festivities in all districts of the city and getting to know their neighbors a little better. This is a joyous time of celebration, and the crowd responds with enthusiastic applause as the mayor finishes her speech and introduces this year's parade marshall, Peshtigo Tengfei.

Tengfei blows a whistle six times to signal the start of the parade - and this is where the celebration goes sideways.

A loud explosion tears through the air, and it's followed by panicked screams and the sharp screech of microphone feedback. A bomb has gone off at the platform where the mayor was standing, collapsing the wood and tearing it to splinters and dust. Chaos erupts in the gathered crowd, and as the people shift in all directions to get clear of any possible additional bombs, a loud siren cuts through the cacophony, calling attention to the sudden crackle of video feed present on all television screens throughout the city, including those set up in the park to broadcast the mayor's speech for those standing far from the stage. The picture is plain, a black background and bold white block letters filling the screen:

WAKE UP
WAKE UP
DON'T BELIEVE THE LIES

The final image is an anatomical graphic of a human heart, displayed for about three seconds, and then the feed goes black again.

Confused murmurs sweep through the crowd as citizens resume tending to the injured and evacuating the area until official first responders arrive.

June 17-23; aftermath around the city.

Dualis Days continues as scheduled, though Mayor Dubanowski is unable to enjoy the festival, as she is spending the week in the hospital recovering from her injuries. A team of Iterations guard her door - no visitors allowed - but the news media frequently report updates on her condition. Nothing to worry about, folks! Return to your celebrations, and don't mind the increased visible presence of the Hand as Iterations are stationed every few blocks throughout the city. It's only for your protection, after all.

Threaded | Flat

Running Into Danger Is Always Step One ~~CW: Blood, threads from this may involve injuries~~

Most people, when a bomb goes off, are intelligent. Well, vaguely intelligent. First lizard brain reaction is to run away from danger until things are certain enough. Come back after to check on the injured, to offer what help you can. Most people think about their own safety first. It's the ones that run head first into danger, immediately and while knowing it's dangerous that are something a bit more. Whether that more is brave or reckless or just desensitized is up for debate. David Alleyne, former member of the X-Men ~~more or less, it's complicated~~, is perhaps all of those things. He's been through, arguably, worse than this. He's been through explosions and terrorist attacks and people getting hurt. Helps, of course, to have other people's skills to draw on, other people's experience, other people's medical degrees too. Stack that all on top of being used to rapid response in these sorts of situations, and David runs toward when everyone else is running away.

Even knows how to direct people away from him so that he can cut more easily toward the front of the crowds. This wasn't how he'd expected his second day in this strange place to go down, not by half, but there he is anyway, pushing through toward the front. He doesn't care about the picture, he doesn't care about the broadcast, he cares about something more pressing. The injured.

Never going to stop thanking you, am I Hank? he thinks to himself as he goes down by the first badly injured person, tearing his white suit-coat off and immediately starting to rip it apart to serve as bandages.

Advantages of what and who he used to be? Fully qualified ER and trauma doctor, all in the convenient package of a twenty-year old man with a charming smile and a perfectly calm demeanor. Because compared to a few of the things he's seen up until this point ~~including near death by the Hulk~~, this is nothing.

"Hey, I'm David. Don't worry, I'm gonna help you out here. Just tell me where it hurts."

A hero's work is never done.

Time for Breakdowns Later ~~CW: Panic Attack, Past Death of Teens. Please don't read further if this could be bad for you~~

At least, it's never done until it actually is done. Until the sirens are lower, more a background noise that your brain has filtered out, crying only as they carry victims away from the scene. Except the work is done when the police are crunching down and people aren't exactly taking the charming smiles and young man with blood on his shirt and a little bit spattered on his glasses seriously anymore. Except it is now and fuck, he wishes it wasn't over just yet.

It's always in the aftermath that it's worst for him. Usually in the field it hadn't been this bad, not even when the Skrull hit San Francisco or when Utopia... Usually it wasn't this bad. Usually there weren't so many non-combatants involved. Usually there wasn't so much blood and the smell of blood and explosive residue in the air. Normally the sobbing doesn't involve so many young voices. Normally there isn't a touch of the scent of burned flesh in the air.

That's what gets to him the worst. That's what makes a man who's been through the worst that the X-Men could dole out sometimes, a man who has fought an interdimensional parasite and lost more people than he cares to count, fall apart. It's the memories, the scent of explosives and the voices of children raised in pain and fear and grief, and the smell of burning flesh. Driven as he'd been by helping it had been impossible for David to really let the details get to him. To break through years of defenses and a pretty great talent for just ignoring what hurts him.

Now, though, David's useless. Now it's overwhelming, and he's left stumbling away from the front lines. Home is so far away, and he just needs a moment. Just needs the noise to stop. Just needs clean air. Instead he finds a brief bit of wall, some business or other along the street, and David puts his back to it, sinking down to sit on the ground. There's enough left of rational thinking for him to take his glasses off and tuck them into his pocket before the shaking really starts. His heart is racing, his breath short, and some tiny voice in the back of his head that sounds a lot like Charles Xavier calmly informs him that this is a panic attack and he really will be okay, even though his body is working really hard at telling him this is the end of the world. No, not even kidding, this one little moment here, with the noises and the smells and the memories of one dark night that haunts him still, this is what the world for him is made of.

Fuck. Fuck he didn't sign up for this today, okay? This was supposed to be some sort of party. He didn't need this. He didn't...

Just needed to deal with the shaking, he told himself. If he could just stay here until he stopped shaking and he could catch his breath and the world maybe stopped spinning some, he'd be okay. Had to be okay. What other choice did he have?

June 17; Central Square Park - Bomb Time

"We need to keep the parade route cleared, place hard barriers for the attendees. Every year we end up with at least one kid trying to jump the fence and run at a float," an older veteren of the force is saying.

"Sounds about right for kids," Hank says. He's the oldest one in this batch of cops. All of them rookies. Hank's the only vet from somewhere else. Back home that would have gotten him a better job right off the bat. Here? He's gotta get used to some of the different species available. Hell, some of the rookies here are species here that don't even look near human. He was still getting use to the idea of fuckin' androids on the force. This completely kicks it to the curb.

He looks over the map of the parade route, drawing a red line on the screen. Makes X's on the places he already knows to be high traffic areas. The ones where people have probably been waiting for hours. He wrings his mouth to the side, quirking it into a hard frown. Alright, so the're giving him from the start to the first few blocks as escort. Sounds easy enough. He'll relay and take over after the next guys. Looks like a lazy job.

Guess it's better than finding two week old bodies rotting in houses. He'll look at the menial bullshit work like that.

"You'll be using these," the veteren says, leading them over to metal... fuckin' horses or something? His heart immediately cries in pity for the pain his ass is going to be subjected to after riding that for a while. Great. He at least gets on the thing without being seated backwards. "Please listen to me more than fuckin' Connor did," he leans in and whispers to it, pats its metal neck, walks it over near one of the middle floats and relaxes.

The whistle blows, he's ready to go, and then there's an explosion and a plume of debris.

"Aw hell!" Hank yells as a tide of people flee. "Come on, get off your floats." He shouts up at some of the wranglers. Who knows if that's the only thing that had a bomb on it. "Get to a safe distance. In an orderly fashion! Fucking orderly!" He yells at a man that shoves two smaller women out of the way, then rides with them a few steps until they've righted themselves. "They'll be setting up barricades that way! Get down there."

As it's not a real horse, and knows better than to kick and step on people, the moment he sees someone knocked down he walks it over to stand in the way of the moving crowd to keep them from getting trampled. Until everyone is out of the way, this is all he can do. Give the guy time to get up with a giant obstacle in the way.

June 17; Central Square Park - Post-Bomb

Later, when the area is cleared and there are paramedics on the scene and other assessors, he rides the 'horse' over near to the stage, clammors off its back, and intends to speak with his supervisor. Supervisor is talking with a couple of other cops. He doesn't interrupt, but he catches bits here and there.

Right off he can tell this was a small stakes deal. Either they didn't want to buy enough materials to set off attention or they only wanted something on a small scale. He can't get too close yet, though. All he can do is go back to the nearest taped border and fend off rubber-neckers.

June 17-23; aftermath around the city - Looking for a snack on 'horseback'

A few days later he's back up on his robot steed, doing the rounds at the celebrations. Everyone seems to have calmed down, which is creepy as fuck. Everyone sort of has this fucking attitude that's way too familiar. A bombing in one place, and a few days later there are other people ignoring it in an unhealthy way or dramatically exaggerating their fears for attention.

Mostly Hank's just dropping the occasional parking ticket, issuing warnings, and smiling down at various kids excited to see either him or the robot. Which snorts sometimes and shakes out its wires like it has a mane, and that's strange. He's gonna be pissed off if he actually starts liking this fucking thing.

He's also hungry as fuck, and looking out at the first decent place to eat.

OOC: I'll match format if you prefer brackets.

The Serious Prompt (explosion!)

Her newly discovered taste for funnel cake notwithstanding, Dualis Days is not having the desired effect on Mira. The Arbiters, or whatever they call their law enforcement here, are barely represented, the inadequate scattering of personnel she's picked out among the throng all in shirtsleeves at that, and not a single riot shield or gas grenade among them. It's shockingly negligent, making her tense and unhappy even before she reaches Central Square Park and almost turns on her heel to go back to the dormitory. The park is a tailor-made killzone--a handful of snipers on the surrounding rooftops could pick off anyone they liked, or a well-placed artillery volley could account for the entire crowd gathered on and around the stage...and yet everyone is relaxed. Smiling. Laughing. Taking pict-caps and paying no attention to their surroundings.

When you spend your life waiting for the other shoe to drop, people who don't think there is another shoe are equal parts baffling and infuriating, and Mira's broadcasting enough of her unease that others waiting to hear the mayor are leaving her more space than most. Fine by her. She hangs back just outside the park on the opposite side from the parade route--and without a single tank or even an infantry formation in dress uniforms, what kind of sad parade is it anyway? Keeping her options open in case she has to run, she's picked a street corner beneath an awning that blocks sight lines from all the imaginary snipers with which her paranoia has populated the surrounding buildings. The screens are good enough for a speech she doesn't really care about, anyway.

Then the stage explodes and Mira doesn't have anyone to address with the general sense of "I told you so" she's feeling, because all the civilians are running and screaming and not paying any more attention to their surroundings than they were before. She drops into cover behind a planter, scanning for the hostiles she fully expects and who don't appear. After a minute or two, when no one near the site of the explosion falls from gunfire or subsequent explosions, Mira decides the risk is acceptable and abandons her relatively safe spot to run towards ground zero. Dualis citizens might not recognize the Imperium yet, but they're still human--well, a lot of them are--and the wounded will need help.

She vaults the planter, sprints across the street, and is over the decorative fencing edging one section of the park in seconds, avoiding the press of bodies at the gate. When her boots start crunching on bits of what used to be the stage, she slows to a walk, not wanting to turn an ankle, and surveys the damage, a tall woman in military fatigues looking around her with narrowed eyes.

"Incompetent idiots. Whoever planned this ought to be shot."

She means the mayor's staff, but if it's any consolation, she thinks the bombers should be shot, too.

The Funny Prompt (midway games!)

"Oh, sorry, you missed those first two," the man running the shooting gallery tells her in what's a reasonably good facsimile of sympathy, of which Mira wants none.

"Because the gun is mis-sighted." Her tone would immediately set a civilian apologizing where she's from, but just gets a shrug from the carnie, helping her mood not at all.

"That's what they all say, lady." The sympathy is becoming harder to detect, but he unknowingly defuses the oncoming argument when he continues, "you wanna prove it with another round?"

"Yes." Someone should probably explain upselling to Mira eventually, but this time it's a matter of honor.

"You're on," he says amicably, and steps aside as the row of digitally-generated rubber ducks on the projection screen float back into view.

The gun's a training weapon--though she doesn't see what cartoon birds have to do with target practice--and lacks the reassuring kick of a bolt pistol, but it's still a gun. Now that Mira knows the sights are off, and more importantly, just how they're off, she can hit anything in range...and proceeds to do so. In less than ten seconds, all ten simulated ducks have exploded into simulated confetti amidst simulated cheers, and Mira sets the light gun down with a contemptuous sniff.

"Um," says the man in the booth as he looks from her only slightly smug expression to the row of prizes hanging above the screen. "Do you want the unicorn or the elephant?"

Edited 2019-06-18 01:30 (UTC)

Central Square

Come to the celebration, they said. It'll be fun, they said. It's tradition, they said!

New as he was to the city, Seifer had taken the time to pause somewhere to watch the mayor's broadcast. It was generally a good idea to get a feel for the climate for anywhere you lived, and new science experiment or not that still held true. This place was significantly different than the Iteration he'd just come from, leaving him to wonder what exactly the point of this experiment would be. Maybe the mayor's speech would shed some light on things. Or just be an attempt to pull the wool over their eyes so their reactions would be more "genuine." His opinion leaned toward the latter, judging by that incredibly plastic smile of hers.

Just when he was about to write the whole speech off as boring and find himself some food all hell broke loose. An explosion, a siren, panic erupting in the streets and above it all that strange broadcast.

"The hell?" He asked of no on in particular, gawping for a few moments too long at the message and its beating heart. To say it was weird and alarming would be putting it mildly. However, now wasn't the time to dwell on such things, now was the time to act. While others ran in panic from the point of the explosion Seifer moved toward it, trying to keep to barriers and walls in case a shooter decided the bomb alone didn't get the point across.

Here was where training kicked in. Seifer went to work doing what he could to help direct people fleeing the area to clear streets with law enforcement in an effort to keep them from trampling each other. While without Cures or Potions he was severely lacking in the emergency medical aid department he did have some training there as well, and quickly made a rush to secure wounded and patch what he could before medical teams arrived. Mostly it was a matter of keeping them from bleeding out or being trampled in the process. "Hey, you! Yeah, c'mere and put your hand here. Don't just stand there, move." He barked at someone who didn't look too panicked to be put to use. Directing them to help staunch the blood on one of many injured in the blast.

There were better ways than this to make yourself heard damn it.

Aftermath

Eerie how things just... went back to normal. No one called off the celebration. The alarm of the day seemed almost nothing more than rumor and nightmares, not an event that actually happened just a few days prior. The most solid reminder the almost disturbingly cheerful way the news covered the mayor's recovery. Great, she's well, but there was something decidedly off about the whole thing. Well, her, and the significantly increased police presence. That was a good clue they were taking it seriously.

One would think all the robots would put a damper on the mood. They sure did his. It was probably stupid still being out there at all, yet he'd been mulling on that message for a while. Wake up. Wake up to what? What lies were they telling that someone felt their message had to be painted in blood? Frowning to himself he moved, not exactly partaking in the celebrations but instead listening. Seeking gossip, watching for anyone looking more suspicious than himself, anything.

Although he totally had to stop and get something to snack on because come on, how can you pass up carnival food?

Wildcard

[Got something else in mind? Go for it!]

[Central Park Square]

Considering, he'd been dragged here against his will, Aleifr didn't have much of a desire to celebrate Dualis. Nonetheless, he'd decided to attend whatever festivities these feast days had to offer. They gave him an opportunity to see more of this place, speak to others who'd been brought here, maybe even find someone who understood this whole fucking mess better than he did.

If he found something worth drinking, all the better.

So he made his way to the Central Square through the forest of impossibly tall metal buildings - the sight of which still left him awed and deeply anxious in near equal measure. On Fenris, only the tribes that settled on the shores of Asaheim built more than one story off the ground, and yet they built so high here that he couldn't see the tops of their dwellings without craning his neck. On Fenris, knives made of iron were so valuable that people would kill for them, and yet the stuff was so plentiful here they could build mountains of it. However, on Fenris, the island tribes lived in tents by partly by choice, because anything more permanent was shaken to pieces by the quakes that came during the summer months.

Looking up at the mile-high buildings around him, all he could think about is the damage they’d do when they came crashing down, and that … that made him all the more grateful for the relatively open space around the square.

Of course, that peace of mind didn't last all that long.

[A Brief Introduction To Explosives]

He stayed near the back, both because of the sheer number of people was somewhat uncomfortable, and because he saw no need to get any closer once he’d decided that the mayor’s speech was more fluff than substance. He’d just about given up on learning anything from it when the stage, with a roar like a peal of thunder, disintegrated into fire and smoke.

It became utter fucking chaos in an instant.

Suddenly, thousands of people were screaming, stampeding away from the crater where the stage used to be in sheer terror.

Alefir started to shoulder his way through the crush of people. It was like swimming against the tide. Every few steps he had to shove someone out of his way - get them behind him and away from the blast. Whatever the hell caused it might not be done.

“Get back!” He shouted. “Away from the square! Out of the damned way!”

At first, despite how loud he could be, his voice was swallowed up by the noise from the crowd. He could put more bass in his voice than most men, but one voice is nothing against thousands and so they kicked and pushed against him as he tried to fight his way through the current. Eventually though, as the blind panic started to dull in the absence of a second blast, they started to react to what he was saying. Instead of running straight into him, they began to part in front of him rather than get forced out of his path.

He was able to force himself free of the pack soon enough, but he still lingered a little way away from the stage itself. He didn’t know what caused it - what sort of magic, or weaponry, or freak act of nature - and that made him very uneasy considering that ignorance could be as lethal as an arrow through the heart.

But the only things shifting were bits of debris and ash, or people left wounded by the explosion, and he couldn’t leave them there.

If he saw any injured, he stopped to pull them away from the blast radius. If he knew how, he’d help them more than that, but the best he could do as a healer were tourniquets and rudimentary stitches. Anything more than that, they’d need someone more skilled than him.

From there, he moves towards the stage itself ...

[The Hell is a “Carnival”?]

The sign above the stall reads ‘axe throwing’ but calling the thing in his hand an axe was … a generous assessment of it.

It was a solid piece of what appeared to be iron, which would have made it a finer thing than most axes he’s ever held all on it’s own, but it looked and felt like a toy - and not just because of how small it was in his hand. It’s cutting edge was unacceptably dull, and a few long, ugly scratches ran nearly the length of its entire head. The handle was covered in some rubbery green material that was too smooth and slick to get a proper grip on it and, on top of that, it was balanced as poorly as any throwing axe he’d ever held.

Still … he was confident. He swung his arm in a few short, experimental swings. By the third, he had a good enough feel for the axe to let it fly, so he gave it a proper swing and let it go.

The axe didn’t quite find the center of the target. It struck just above and left of the bullseye, but landed with enough force to bury its head deep into the wooden target with a resounding thump - loud enough that the man running the booth looked a little concerned at just how hard Aleifr’d managed to throw it.

Aleifr, for his part, is grinning.

“Give me another.”

[Option The Fourth: Choose your own.]

[Feel free to have your characters just randomly run into him somewhere on the fairgrounds or the surrounding area, before or after the bombing.]

Edited 2019-06-18 05:09 (UTC)

June 17 - Predicament on Arrival (BEFORE explosion)

Squall had officially given up on struggling against the mass of belts binding him a few minutes ago. They were rather thorough, keeping his arms at his sides while crisscrossing his torso in complex patterns. Many of the buckles were hooked to each other too to complete the fun leather harness. Yelling at the Head and the sphinxes accomplished nothing.

He tried to ask for help upon entering the city but was talked over by the strange residents, receiving varying reactions to the restrictive fashion statement and/or appreciatively suggestive expressions. After many failed attempts, he was left fuming and continued his walk of shame.

Something sharp. He just needed something--

He didn't expect two festively dressed individuals to bump into him and unceremoniously drag him along with them back the way he came. "Nice costume, kid! Come on, the festival is this way!"

Festival?

"Let go!" Squall yelled, wiggling and aiming kicks at their shins and the back of their knees only to have them connect with... hard metal? Were they wearing armor? "I said let go!"

This day could not get any worse...

June 17 - Explosion! (CW: description of penetrative injury with object left in body)

Finally freed from the belts that he now had comically draped over his shoulders, (he recognized all of them. Every single one were from his wardrobe in Garden at various points in time.) he decided to observe the festival.

The speech didn't reveal much about the city and he was about to turn away when an explosion ripped through the stage. He was close enough that it left a sharp ringing in his ears and blinded him for a moment. When his vision cleared again, there was chaos everywhere. He'd been thrown a few feet and sitting up hurt. He clamped a hand over his side and saw the splotch of blood on his white shirt. He felt it - a broken piece of the wooden stage had pierced his torso and buried itself, with only jagged tips poking through on his front and back.

The day most definitely just got worse.

The panicked and injured were all around him. Civilians, the lot of them. He gritted his teeth and picked himself up anyway, pulling the front of his leather jacket to cover his wound. He staggered towards the closest person lying on the ground. No visible injuries but unconscious. His basic medical training wasn't going to do much here and he couldn't exactly carry the man, so he looked around for anyone else who seemed in control of their faculties.

"Help me move him somewhere safe." Just ignore the sweat and creeping paleness on his features.

June 20-23 - Exploration + Rogue Toy Plane

After resting for a couple days, Squall felt antsy enough to go outside and explore the city again, though it involved a lot breaks where he sat down or leaned against a wall until the pain in his side eased. He essentially wandered and tried to talk to people, ask leading questions about the city without drawing the attention of the Iterations (which he did a couple times but somehow managed to get away with it). The questions were mostly along the lines of "how long have you been here?", "that doesn't look safe" in reference to the crazier looking rides (that he wants to try), and "that's not food" to the bizarre-looking foods at the festival (that he definitely does not want to try).

He also found a busted up wind-up toy airplane, which he spent a while fixing out of curiosity. When he finally got it working again, it took a new flight path and was now flying directly at your head. Oops.

((OOC: Welp. That got long. Wildcards welcome. Or hit me up on plurk (shirobiro) or discord (Shiro#4072) if none of these work.))

lazarus got no dirt on me. (open; central square park.)

This shouldn’t be happening.

Not what’s transpired in the park minutes ago - Jason wasn’t here to witness the bombing, too busy waking in shock and confusion underneath a pair of speaking statues, too busy punching solid surfaces in the temple so hard he splits his knuckles bloody. Too busy wandering through city streets in a daze and wondering how all descriptions of hell he’s ever read or heard about got it so wrong.

Or maybe not so wrong - the destruction and injuries Jason stumbles into once he reaches the park are a little more like what he expects to see. If he weren’t dissociating and questioning whether all he sees is a prolonged death-hallucination, his training would’ve kicked in, along with the instinct to help, to save people from harm, but all he can do is stare, bewildered, as he wanders through the crowd.

Which is not a good look for someone dressed for winter weather in jeans, a black wool coat, and a teal-colored scrub shirt stained with dark, dried blood down the front. Not in the midst of a mysterious bombing.

soldier, keep on marchin’ on. (closed to nida and seifer; central hand station, after the bombing.)

The Iterations that escorted Nida and Seifer to the station were - perhaps unsurprisingly - tight-lipped on details as to why they’d been summoned for questioning. They’re shuffled into an interrogation room and left to stew in whatever they’re feeling for the next few minutes, until the door opens and a stern, professionally dressed human-appearing woman with dark brown hair pulled back into a severe ponytail enters, studying a small tablet held in her hands.

“Which one of you is Nomura,” she asks, without glancing up at either of them, “and which one’s Almasy?”

[June 17 | Central Square Park] {cw: violence, blood, etc}

It may have been years since Cissie's worn a mask and rushed head first into dangers while others ran away, but some instincts never leave you. Maybe especially when you've spent a few years kidnapped to various pocket dimensions full of strange dangers. A bomb, as jarring and unexpected and violently terrible as it is, is something that Cissie understands. It's more familiar to her than even some of the victims and creatures making up the panicking crowd around them.

(Now is definitely not the time to think about what that means in terms of her life experiences.)

It takes only seconds to confirm that she and Tim, who was watching the speech with her, have only superficial injuries. They'll both probably need some stitches and maybe some shrapnel pulled out of wounds, but they're standing and maybe their ears are ringing, but they’re in a lot better shape than most of the people around them. Before and without really thinking about it, Cissie’s following Tim into the crowd, heading toward the worst of the damage and the worst of the carnage and screaming.

There is a lot of carnage and a lot of wounded, and for the most part, she pushes and directs people who are able to walk or otherwise move to follow the crowds and get clear. Her first aid and triage skills are only so much good without any supplies, but she rips up clothing to fashion make-shift bandages and tourniquets. She has a passing thought about blood borne diseases and her own wounds, and tamps it down--shock, Cissie. This is shock--before checking another gushing headwound and wrapping most of a shirt around bloodsoaked and matted purple hair.

She’s efficient and fast and good at what she’s doing, but she feels detached, like she’s watching someone else go through the motions. It will come back to her later, but for now she’s grateful for the shock and her instincts. She can almost hear her mother’s voice telling her to stay calm in chaos, and isn’t that alarming?

There are calls for help all around her, and she turns to the next being, and the next, doing whatever she can.

[June 17 | Aftermath] {cw: probably trauma and blood?}

The quiet following the chaos of the explosion is jarring and Cissie can only sit on the grass in the park for a while, staring at the remains of the stage, waiting for Tim or Steph or someone else she knows. That’s what you do when you’re lost, isn’t it? Sit still and wait for someone to find you. Except that Cissie knows where she is, and she knows how to get back to the apartment/dorm she shares with Tim. She’s just. Going to stay here until someone makes her move.

[June 18-23 | Dualis Days After]

It’s strange, how the city picks up and resumes as if nothing unusual has just happened, when by all accounts, this is supposed to be a perfect utopia where stuff like bombings never happen. Cissie is not surprised to see more of a police force around and watching after the bombs, but she does her best to steer clear of them. Robot cops hit her alarm bells a little too loudly for her to want to risk testing their limits. Carrying on as per usual involves more pretending than she really feels up to, but a city wide carnival is absolutely the kind of thing she would normally be completely into, even if she hadn’t just arrived from a land of no electricity or reliable hot water.

Still, she makes an effort, browsing the craft vendors, trying new foods and even finding some familiar fair foods as well. She even tries some carnival games, although she only wins one stuffed animal in a tossing game, not because she can’t, but because she doesn’t want to draw attention to herself and also… Her heart’s just not in it.

[Wildcard Option]

Feel free to run into Cissie anywhere doing anything! I'm game!

June 17: party's over

[Some things are instinct, pure and simple. That's really all there is to it. One minute he's standing in the crowd watching the speech, one arm around Nida's waist, and the next--

The next there's a flash of light, a sound that isn't a sound, and maybe he'd fallen at the shock wave and maybe he hadn't but either way he's running towards the fires, yelling at Nida to get people clear before they're separated and Billy's on his own.

Approaching the wreckage of what used to be a platform, he sees prone figures everywhere. Many are bleeding. Some are probably... he's not going to think about that yet. Too much to do. The other end of the platform is about to give way on top of several prone figures and he's already lifting his hands, glowing blue to match his eyes, and he gives a quick prayer of thanks that this at least is working as he uses his magic to hold the platform steady long enough to slap a glowing hand against one support pillar, then the next, twisted metal straightening and supporting once more as he murmurs words too quiet to catch under his breath.

His eyes are still glowing blue as he turns, looking for the next thing he can do, the next way to help, which is when he spots the sound system about to fall on top of another group, both injured and first responders, and starts to run, holding a hand towards the rigging in an effort to keep it from falling as it strains against his magic.]

Watch out--!!

June 17: aftermath

[He's tired, and sore, and his shirt is covered in blood he's not even sure is his. Some of it is, he's pretty sure; he'd gotten an elbow to the face earlier that had left his nose bleeding, though unbroken. That's got almost nothing to do with the bone-deep exhaustion that comes from using far too much of his magic after far too long a time without being able to use it at all, though. In fact, it's that exhaustion that's left him swaying on his feet, before he finally sinks down on a clear spot of pavement next to another person clearly involved in the day's events.

Running a hand through hair already streaked with ash and God knows what else, Billy offers a faint, wan smile as he lifts his bottle of water towards them, before taking a long drink.]

Guess the honeymoon's already over, huh?

June 19-23: let's try this again

[Billy takes a day to recover before heading back out into the festivities, still going on despite the explosions of the first day of the festival. Once that day's over, though, he's back out in the mix, and he definitely doesn't miss the increased police presence, those faceless robots on nearly every street corner still somehow watching everyone.

It should make things feel safer, shouldn't it? And yet. He's read this book before.

Fortunately, the coffeeshop he's ended up working for has a stall at the festival, which gives him a place to be, a reason for his eyes to sweep the crowd, watching their reactions, looking for any sign of the mysterious attackers from the first day. There have to be at least rumors. There always are.

None of that shows in the warm brown eyes he turns to the next passerby, though, offering a charming smile as he holds out a tiny cup filled with something a violent shade of green topped with a little puff of white.]

Try our new minty mocha supreme?

"Really, it's not as bad as it looks. I just haven't had a chance to change clothes. Honest. They didn't want to take me to the hospital or anything."

"Okay," the barista agreed, hesitantly enough that Steph almost wishes she had gone to her assigned dorm before getting coffee. Almost.

"But it's on the house, alright? If nothing else, it will make me feel better." Steph smiled wryly at the young woman.

"I guess I can live with that."

She waits by the bar, dead-eying anyone who stared at her blood-speckled shirt. It's a light green that shows holes and bloodstains easily, though the rest of her is properly cleaned and bandaged where appropriate. Her worst injuries are cuts from shrapnel, only one or two of which bled enough to need gauze rather than a band-aid. It really isn't as bad as it looks.

[Central Square Park: We just came here to have a good time and we're honestly feeling very attacked right now.]

Tim still has a mild headache and a less mild lump on his head from the circumstances preceding his arrival in Dualis, but he's in fairly good spirits as he and Cissie make their way toward the kickoff event for the celebration. It's fairly typical to what they both expect from this kind of event. Parades. Speeches. Crowds.

Bombs.

It probably says something about both of them that when they pick themselves up after the explosion, their first response after exchanging looks to ensure that they're both relatively all right is to run directly toward the source of the chaos. Whether it says something about their sense of heroism or their mental state is really in the eye of the beholder. They're separated almost immediately, and Tim focuses on getting people clear, moving the wounded and doing what first aid he can, while getting real medical attention for the people with more serious injuries.

He keeps an eye out for familiar faces as he goes--sure, they may be in a strange new city, but that doesn't mean he doesn't know anyone.

[Aftermath and Carnival: Nothing to see, move along.]

Tim has a Gothamite's ability to dismiss recent disaster, but even he is a little surprised to find everyone continuing on as though nothing had happened. Oh, he'll still join the party, eating carnival food, playing games, and seeing sights. But he's also listening to what people are saying (mostly nothing useful), and trying to poke his nose where it doesn't belong.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Was I not supposed to be here?"

[Feel free to find him at the celebration or snooping!]

a - bombing mission

Aqua really hasn't been on this world for long at all. Not even a day, really. But it's been so long since she has been home for any length of time. First the Realm of Darkness, then another world entirely. Now another world she hasn't seen before. In all honesty, Aqua is tired. She has been on high alert for so many months, years even, that this feels almost normal.

"Sorry, Ven. Terra," she murmurs to herself. "I'll be just a while longer."

So she lets herself be guided up to the festival. The concept of the Dualis Days reminds her so forcefully of the Dream Festival in Disney Town. She wonders if those have still been going on through the years. She can almost taste the royalberry ice cream on her tongue-

The memory is cut short as the blast slams through every thought in her head, distracting her instantly. Even after so many years and months away in realms without her keyblade, or any keyblade, she instinctively reaches to summon hers and Stormfall materializes in her hand. Her eyes widen in shock, but she doesn't have time to truly marvel at the fact that she has finally summoned her keyblade outside her own world. Wherever this place is, her heart is strong enough to overcome whatever power dampening effects were on that other world.

So, she jumps into the crowd, as usual, looking for any signs of suspicious people and helping those she can. Stormfall gets its workout once she figures out that she has access to her own magic again, casting Curaga as many times as she can. The spell has to recharge, of course, and it doesn't have an infinite amount of uses - also, it doesn't seem to be doing as much to help as it should be - but it's better than she's had in a long time. So she'll keep leading people to safety and healing as she can and anyone nearby will get roped into helping her if they stand still long enough.

aftermath pt1

With the last world, she'd woken up in water twice, and nearly drowned both times. Here, it's a bombing. Even though this is only the second world she has really been kidnapped to, it's not the first unfamiliar crisis situation she has had to deal with. Once the majority of the civilians have been moved away from the bombing site, Aqua makes her rounds to see if she can lend anyone any other help, even if it's just a friendly face to talk to.

"Is there anything you need?"

aftermath p2

Something in all of this is giving Aqua a very bad feeling. It's amazing how everyone seems to get right back to the festivities like nothing happened at all. Still, she stays on high alert for as long as she can, but even someone as duty-bound as she is can get roped into playing a few games. So, here she is playing a ring toss game. Given all of her training, she's very good at it, though she does her best not to get dragged into too many games.

At least, not unless someone really wants one of those prizes.

"No, that's okay," she says, lifting her hands. "I've already played. You should try it, though. It really is a fun game."

Threaded | Flat

CW: Referenced Blood/Injury, PTSD triggers, Panic Attack, Death

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