(Untitled)

[stoicloyalty]

Who: stoicloyalty Chane Laforet and you!
When: Backdated a little-- between Monday 26th September and 9th October.
Where: Various sectors around the city.
Summary: As seen in this post. Her new powers are firing her personal thoughts a little all over the place; people get caught in the crossfire; Chane is mortified.
Warnings: emotions~. Sectors/times of day

Comments

Sector 6, evening (before sirens)

[stoicloyalty]

[ Tonight work had ended early, with backup arriving shortly after her particularly difficult client, either amnesiac or with very little concern for what he owed back to the company, refused to answer her in anything more than a shut door. It was simple enough calling a car to this particular address, but as the sun dipped towards the horizon, retracing her route through the winding streets and hills of the sector proved a worrisome task. Not something she would call backup over.
I'm lost. ]

Sector 6, late evening (after sirens)

[stoicloyalty]

[ No good; the Darkness is catching up with her as she darts through side-alleys, searching for nothing more than a light to guide her back towards an island of dry ground. Each step seems to suck at the soles of her shoes, her heels sticking in the Seep (it feels like sludge, it looks like sludge but she won't spare a backwards glance in her urgency to confirm how quickly it's moving to cover her footprints) and it makes finding a distinguishable route impossible. This sector seems to fare worse in the Darkness than the one where her house is, or-- well, she has taken care not to wade out in it after sirens.

Just as she thinks she sees the angular tint of light on a street-corner, something long and fast whips at her ankle-- the tentacle of an ooze darkness camouflaged in the muck of the streets with a grip that makes her stagger, clutch at the wall of the building on her left covered with slime, and stare at her attacker. The sight of it is-- disturbing, but more than the sight the feel of it knotting around her ankle sends panic

[vinovidivici]

[ The unruly patron was seen into the back of a night cab, his wallet tossed to the driver. Claire was about to head back into the club, but crouched for a moment to inspect a quelk that trundled along the ground. Having work to occupy himself with had helped distract him from a low, ebbing sense of being out of place that didn’t fit in with the now-familiar area around Lion’s Gate, but it also meant he couldn't act on the accompanying compulsion to call by the boarding house. The weird little tripod creature wobbled along gently, oblivious to the pensive stare it was attracting.

A sudden wave of that unease comes on - now uncomfortably strong, like a neon sign coming on a few feet from his head, and unfamiliar - a burst of genuine fear. It's not something he's used to feeling even in dire situations, and if it were it wouldn’t fit the setting, the potential short dash to safety, the absence of monsters with any lethal potential. It doesn’t fit with him. He shakes his head as if to dispel the panic and gets to his feet, unsettled,

[stoicloyalty]

[ Unable to pull against the stubborn strength of that tentacle Chane crouches lightly, dress trailing through the thick dirt on the ground-- the better reach allows her a quick, clean cut through the gelatinous substance, letting her drop back from the sudden release from the grip. The thick weight of the creature's severed limb hangs dead on her ankle like a cuff. For a second or two she sits dazed, vaguely attempting to distinguish the outline of what exactly attacked her. 8-Hour-Death is not something she has encountered, but then, she does not like to linger after the sirens

[vinovidivici]

[ The closer he draws the more intense the feelings are, growing to the point where they intrude on his physical senses: rustling fabric, clipped breath, and that ever-present fear, although it becomes easier to compartmentalise the latter once he's in motion. At one point he pulls out a switchblade reflexively at the sensation of something gripping at his calf. It doesn't dissipate even though he can see nothing's there; he doesn't put the knife away

[stoicloyalty]

[ That sudden arc of a blade at her side makes an entirely new addition to the varying degrees of panic she feels each time a tendril lashes out for her-- and her half-formed gasp catches in her throat as that slash throws her weight back with how she'd been pulling desperately, her other foot still bound.

Feeling the firm hold behind her does not give her the same shock, however; even in her overwhelmed state she can recognise that it is not malicious. With a brief, blundered stagger of her weight against that hand she attempts to right herself, the bare minimum to stamp and crouch again, the knives in each hand finding their targets once more. Her urgency to get rid of this, to escape, allows her only a split-second glance to the person come to her aid, but not more of a reaction to his identity than to face the Darkness and keep fighting. ]

[vinovidivici]

[ One of the larger shivering stumps of black matter respawns suddenly, the thick tendril worming out towards her ankle again. He steps over her trapped leg to stomp down on it. Reflex-quick it wraps around his foot but he grinds in with his heel to trap it against the ground without severing. Standing at this acute angle between her and the mouth of the 8-hour death the hand at her back moves to her waist, urging her back away from it; his knife darts around Chane's pair, joining her efforts to slice through the tentacles left on her leg (if he intuits which to cut next from reading her body language or from the imprinting is unclear even to him). ]

[stoicloyalty]

[ Watching the creature lunge for Claire as well and succeed in wrapping its mass around him, the man who can dodge bullets, only serves to rekindle her fear now shared out over the two of them, for his wellbeing as well as her own will to live. Her fear for what his fight means with regards to their safety, what the consequences will be-- all rushing through Chane's mind in a moment as his touch (it does not disorientate her so much as pull her emotions towards a different direction) hardens her resolve once more

[vinovidivici]

[ She's free - he catches a tendril that tries to trail after her with his now free hand and watches her sink against the wall out of the corner of his eye. It's not exactly relief that he feels - he knew she'd make it, even with that strange fear encroaching on him - but he's glad to see it through, to hopefully abate that panic she must be feeling. ] You all right? [ If she answers he'll miss it as he looks down sharply to give a flick of the knife through the darkness that's trying to wrap itself around his wrist and a quick, precise twist of his foot to dislodge the tentacle there, which squirms as if in its death throes. The mouth of the creature, embedded in the pavement, makes for a tempting target now that its limbs are dealt with, but it would be ultimately unsatisfying. Like hitting out against an inanimate object there would be no understanding of its own punishment. Besides, the creature would just respawn, healing repeatedly and reappearing tomorrow even if he did manage to kill it. There's also Chane, her wellbeing now

[stoicloyalty]

[ From her position she cannot tear her eyes away from the struggle-- in the small way it resembles a struggle, failing tenacity on the creature's side and a rough dismissal on Claire's. It's fast, and her senses seem to be returning to normal like a camera lens refocusing, more aware of the sound of Claire's heels hitting stone through sludge, the feel of the knives clutched in her hands, no longer an extension of her body the way she adapts to them in battle. Releasing her grip on them slightly (the satin of her gloves clings, damp with sweat, to her palm) the blades are slid back into their holsters for cleaning later; and Claire's question surprises her, jolts her from the momentary lapse in attention.

All she does for a few seconds is stare up at him, eyes locked with his. The questions hounding her from moments prior are still at the front of her mind, fighting to win over her senses again. How did he know? Could it be coincidence that he had matched her fighting plans so perfectly, move by move?

No-- even if it is due to some

[vinovidivici]

[ Even without getting a jolt of her response when their hands meet, that reaction would be alarming. As it is that touch sends a rush back along the connection from her, and although it's still terror that comes through it's no longer the understandable panicked response to the darkness, but something confused and overwrought and somehow it's aimed at him. The line of his mouth sets a little grimly and his open hand flexes, the ligaments tensing against skin, trying to work out how to deal with this, wanting to know why she'd feel that way. ]

I keep - [ He cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "I keep feeling your feelings" is a bit too reminiscent of that movie he caught the other day with the weird brown spaceman. And he finds himself not wanting to say it - or something trying to dampen that thought. Someone

[stoicloyalty]

[ She knows. Without those specific words feeding into her thoughts she knows an exchange of sensations is happening, or thoughts, or mere emotions-- it's tangible but not defined. She cannot locate a source for them, either, a gateway for this that would make closing it off all the more simple, an action as familiar as distancing reason from reaction