[open] and everything around is bending inward

[possessum]

WHO: Peter (possessum) & various / you!
WHAT: Just a little catch-all to store threads.
WHERE: Various places throughout the City.
WHEN: Late-October (possibly early-November).
WARNINGS: This character comes with demonic possession (and associated symptoms) by default. More warnings will be added to individual threads as needed.

AND NOW MY BODY LOOKS JUST LIKE A STRANGER'S

^{closed starters will be placed here! if you'd like to do something—
horreur / hagfishs @ discord / pm / plot post / cr meme}

Comments

— LOUIS.

[possessum]

[ Strange things come out at night.

Surely it must also be true for this place. As still as the city may be (unnaturally so, with its lack of wildlife, with no flutter of bird wings or hum of insects), in that silence, things creep and crawl and crack. Perhaps more so, in the night. Isn't it when the predators come out to roam?

A figure moves in the darkness, though whether a predator or not is difficult to discern. It doesn't seem to be attempting to keep stealthy, isn't slinking in shadow or avoiding the eerie overhead glow of streetlamps that line the pathways in the vast City Hall Park. No, the figure walks right down those pathways — if its movement could be considered walking at all. It's with an odd shuffle, legs so slow that at times the figure doesn't seem to be moving at all. If one watches long enough, one might see that it does, in fact, stand completely still for several long minutes on end, before it starts moving again with that strange shambling, as though its body is a thing it must compel to move at all.

If one comes closer, one may see that the thing is in fact a young man. Tall and thin, with locks of wild curls unkempt, and dark eyes deepened in shadow like bruises. There is more strangeness to this sight; the boy seems to be in his bed clothes, and shoeless, only wearing socks that make no sound against the pathway. No, he doesn't make any sound at all —

— until it comes, head tilting back and throat fluttering as the figure's tongue brushes the roof of his mouth with a firm stroke. ]

Cluck.

[ There's something here. If one draws closer to the boy who makes those strange sounds, one may feel it. A chill to the air, and something unpleasantly tight, buzzing, like static. Ghosts move here, and things more ancient and strange than that. ]

[deathoftheauthor]

( One might expect a vampire to have some significant experience with or knowledge of the supernatural. One would be wrong, in Louis' case. He's never even seen a ghost, though he is confident that they indeed exist. Beyond that, the realm of the spiritual is as much a mystery to him as his kind is to the unsuspecting mortal world.

Louis studies the boy, or the thing that is shaped like a boy, from a distance at first. It's unsettling; his gait makes the fine hair at the back of Louis' neck stand on end. A memory stirs in him: a mindless, ravenous, human-shaped revenant vampire he'd encountered in the darkness of Eastern Europe a century ago. He shivers at the horrifying thought that there might still be some consciousness left even in that form. The boy looks familiar, in the way that nearly everyone becomes vaguely familiar when there are so few people here in this place; Louis is almost certain that he's seen him at a distance somewhere, that he's not simply something conjured up by this place like the spirits in the mall had been.

He decides to approach, curiosity overriding any sense of self-preservation, but his senses are on high alert, his pulse tripping faster in his chest as he gets nearer. The boy looks like a sleepwalker, but he doesn't move like one, and something in the air feels like it's pressing down on Louis as he gets closer, an awful, prickling, humming feeling gathering around him.

He's about to speak, to try to rouse the boy, and then he does that and— what?

Louis shudders. )

Hello?

( Well, that feels faintly absurd to say, but what else? He has to fight the creeping urge to back away, to turn the way he'd come and put all of this out of his mind. )

[possessum]

[ It's difficult to know if anything truly compels the figure. If there's agenda or purpose, or if this is only mindless wandering, something practically comatose, if not for its ability to be able to move around.

But something does compel it. Something far deep down and stretching outwards like the roots of a tree spreading upwards and out. Lost. This thing is lost and is trying to find something, though what or whom is not clear. This thing is too many lost things — and sometimes, sometimes in the dead of night, when the host's body and mind fall asleep, those lost things slip among the fog. Never quite breaking out of it, not fully; this place prevents that for long. But they're there, they're always there.

Someone calls to him (them?)

Peter's head turns almost immediately. Sometimes he isn't able to respond to anything around him, and sometimes he is. Tonight, the alien black of his eyes (browns overwhelmed by grotesquely-swollen pupils) find the striking green pair of the stranger's. His eyes lock on, wide and wet and opening wider and wetter as the rest of his body turns to face the young man.

Slowly, his head tilts — a bit too far, more birdlike than human as he stares silently at the other. Curious, though guarded. Can a predator sense another predator? Is that what either of them are?

After a long moment of silence, his tongue moves again, like a slimy wet thing with its own mind. Nudges around his mouth, parts it a little, then brushes upwards again, giving another one of those odd clicking sounds... but this time, it seems to be directed at the person. This is probably fine! ]

[deathoftheauthor]

( Louis suppresses a shudder, instinctively repulsed by the way the boy (the being?) moves. Vampires move unnaturally, too, when they aren't trying to be human — too smooth, too acrobatic, too quick for human eyes to track. But this is different. It reminds Louis of a marionette, a sum of individually-commanded parts rather than a living being. But that isn't possible, or at least this being is alive; Louis hears a heartbeat, and he can sense with some nameless predatory instinct the warmth of a human body before him.

But what of the mind inside that body? Fear and suspicion wars with compassion — this thing is human-shaped, boy-shaped, and that is as familiar as it is eerie. And it is trying to communicate with him. Louis' eyes search human features for any recognizable expression, any sign of intent, but the consciousness behind that face is utterly alien, bewildering. Louis takes a breath, steeling his nerves, and turns his palms up and outward in a gesture that says you have nothing to fear from me. )

My name is Louis, ( he says, his voice soft and gentle, as if speaking to a startled beast he'd happened upon in some dark and tangled wood. ) Are you lost?

( It feels like such a strange question to ask, and yet he can think of no other. )

APOLOGIES for the delay, and absolutely no worries if you prefer to let this go!!

[possessum]

[ The ancient being knows the particular importance of a name. Of being given a name. There's power in names, and to be given one so willingly is.... a gift. On some level, even with how strange and lost and warped the demon king currently is, he understands this.

His staring grows wider, eyes opening and swelling, as though the man before him is something to consume — not to destroy, but to try and understand. Louis. What is Louis? Why is he out here in the darkness, like some creeping thing?

'Are you lost?'

The thing wouldn't have understood that those words are so relevant to it, not until they're voiced into the air, and even in all of its strangeness, the thing can comprehend the concept, one that's perhaps been shaped into its perception by its host before Peter. Charlie. So lost, always searching to be held. Afraid to be alone. Wondering who would take care of her. Something in King Paimon wonders it too; something in him knows he's lost, that he should not be here, and he searches always for a tether to grasp onto. For familiarity, for guidance and direction. A thing like him was never meant to be left unguided. ]

Yes.

[ Finally, the thing is capable of speaking, though the simple word comes out oddly, mouth ill-fitting against it. He struggles to speak, skin and lips and tongue so foreign, and still some amalgamated mixture of selves. The next word comes out of him sounding like a child. ]

Lost.

[ Lost. Yes. The boy never blinks, but lifts his head purposefully at the man. A command or a plea; it's somehow both— ]

Help.

— TSURUNO.

[possessum]

[ There was a part of him who'd wanted to go to the Halloween Party — not the city's, but the other one, the one Robby and Tsuruno spearheaded. Even Peter has his moments of thinking a thing could be fun, and yeah, a Halloween party put on by two people he thinks of as "friends" (it's okay to call them that, right? The other two teens have started feeling like friends to him; it's a term that feels right, if he lets it)? It could've been fun. Even if it all stemmed from an experiment in challenge to the city, the thought of which did make Peter a bit nervous...

But that's not the full reason he didn't go. Mostly, it's because he can't. Because he knows loud music and too many people and too many things moving, will make him sick. He knows all it'll take is to see one small-framed person with strawberry blonde hair standing across the room and everything in him will collapse inwards. He can't be somewhere that makes him re-live what he'd done to his little sister. He can't, he can't, he can't.

So he stays inside through the festivities, shuts himself away. But this place won't let him seclude himself from his worst ghosts, not for long. Its effects flutter through him, and most of those effects are what he experiences most days anyway; it's hard for him to detect much difference. Except this time, there's a compulsion, and in the nights of the partying, Peter's drawn out of his apartment more and more, like something beckons him forth.

It worsens what's already there. Peter's a sleepwalker most nights anyway, but tonight something else is awake, more than maybe it's ever been.

He's in his bed clothes, socked feet shuffling slowly and silently down the dark streets — a tall, thin figure that casts a long shadow in the eerie glow of streetlights. And at some point, he.... stops moving. Goes completely still and just stands there, staring straight ahead, eyes wide and unblinking. It may be easy not to notice him there at all, but then maybe you hear it, the only sound in the night stillness, the clipped sound of his tongue brushing the roof of his mouth— ]

Cluck.

[fanstheflames]

[ Tsuruno hasn't been sleeping well, and while she doesn't feel the pull to the university, due to having checked it out (and regretting it), the obvious consequences are beating her metaphorically over the head and rest is just refusing to come to her.

So she slips out of her apartment, to get some air, to clear her head, to avoid getting locked inside again--

But she isn't expecting to see someone else.

Someone who's just standing there, someone the shadows bounce off of.

Something stirs, a warning. The hair stands up at the back of her neck and that... doesn't make sense. Because the closer she steps-- ]

... Peter?

[ That's her friend... isn't it? ]

[possessum]

[ Sometimes, someone else saying his name is enough to pull Peter out of that strange, thick fog. But not tonight. There's not much left of Peter at all, and even if there were... he wouldn't have been able to hear it.

But even so, the person standing there does seem to react to Tsuruno's presence. Slowly, slowly, his head turns to face the girl, tilted down to meet her shorter height. His eyes are alien eyes — pupils swollen, making the usual warm browns of Peter's gaze look more black than anything. He stares for a few long moments, but there's no hint of recognition, even if on some level.... he feels something towards her.

Something this city has fueled in him, something wrong. This girl... he can't trust her, she's done something wrong, made things wrong somehow. The presence within Peter is aware of this too, and it all manifests as some kind of upset. All of a sudden, his lips peel back as he gives a sharp, reedy hiss aimed right at the other teen. This is... probably fine! ]

[fanstheflames]

[ Oh. Oh, he just hissed at her.

That's both somewhat hurtful and also really concerning?? Along with the fact that it looks like his irises have been almost completely eclipsed by the black of his pupils and not even in the normal "dilated for an eye exam" kind of way.

But there's this growing sense of... Knowing. The Knowing that a Magical Girl has when there's a clear threat. That whatever's going on, this isn't Peter. It's pissed at her, whatever it is, and that also hurts, an extra layer to the guilt that's been troubling her ever since she and Robby had done their best to test and thwart this city.

... Was he like this because of her?

But she stares at him, at this stranger, and takes a deep, steadying breath. ]

... Who are you?

— VANESSA.

[possessum]

[ How much time has passed since that strange night? Like many strange nights for Peter, it feels like a dream, a nightmare, the way his spells of lost time so often do.

Only this one has something else. Tangible evidence of.... something. Of something having happened. And he can't... explain it, what he finds there on his neck when he's able to actually be lucid enough to take notice of it at all — for a day, maybe two, he's just been out of it, sleeping through waves of a dizzy grogginess.

He's terrified of what happened to him (what happened to him?) And he needs help. The first person to come into his mind is the person who stays there within it; he needs the sort of comfort only she gives him, the sort of... security she has. And answers; Vanessa knows things, maybe she'll know this.

He wants to go to her, but he doesn't know where she is; he rarely knows where to locate the mysterious woman who still seems more like a ghost than a person, most days. Mostly he calls her to him, and so he does now, fingers fumbling through his phone for her name, voice a hurried whisper when she picks up, like a secret for just the two of them. He's almost afraid something else might be listening. ]

Vanessa? You're there?

[matermali]

[ Strangely (or perhaps not), she had been thinking earlier of calling Peter and asking if he wished to learn about the next card. The last several days have hit such highs and lows that Vanessa is in dire need of something that has recently become familiar, in order to stabilize herself and steady her own sanity. To that, she's concerned that recent events might have affected Peter as well, so it's as good a time as any to gather up her Tarot.

His call comes as no surprise, then, though it does catch her before she can finish pinning up her hair.

While there should seem nothing overtly wrong with his greeting, as he says her name, there is a small jolt at the nape of her neck that has her suddenly looking over her shoulder. When she gets a sense for these things, for trouble, she knows better than to ignore it. This isn't simple stress or anxiety on his part. Already knowing what she does, what she may suspect lives within him, she can only wonder if he's done something that he didn't mean to. ]

What has happened?

[ The concern is weighted, audible in the softening of her vocal fry, and offered slowly in contrast with Peter's urgency. ]

[possessum]

[ He doesn't know how to start, how to explain, but as always, the woman offers some grounding stability with the way she speaks and the things she says. Are you all right? would be an impossible thing to answer, would set him into a loop of uncertainty.

What has happened? she asks instead, and he can launch right into it, even if his voice is already beginning to quake around the corners. ]

I think something hurt me. [ For everything about the situation he can't explain, that much is something he can. He's been hurt, bitten. ] There's— it's like a bite? Something bit me.

[ Voicing it aloud for the first time makes him panicky, voice raising in pitch. ]

On my neck.

[matermali]

[ As soon as she hears that he's been hurt, her muscles coil with shoulders hunched and knuckles white.

Something bit me. On my neck.

There's a clatter as Vanessa immediately jumps from her chair, bumping the vanity and knocking her jewelry over even as she's already rushing around her chair to grab her bag.

Her blood feels like ice, and it's spreading across her eyes now in a pale mist that nearly obscures her vision. It's to her credit that her voice doesn't convey the sudden terror that has taken hold—hopefully, only she can hear the endless screams that scratch inside her skull and will never need to pause for breath.

There is no hiding the urgency in her tone, but at least her voice does not tremble. ]

Where are you right now, Peter? Tell me and I will be there.

[immortalpoet]

[A perfectly ordinary convenience store, in a perfectly ordinary little city.]

[That's what it should be, at least. Even as its stocked with all the necessary things, there's something that hangs in the air, like an omen. Is it the flickering lights? The disarray of the counter, with no cashier to head it? Regardless, there's still things to be found and use, so it shouldn't matter, right?]

[Whenever Peter finally makes a decision on what foodstuffs to nab for whatever reason, there's suddenly a presence - another hand, scarred, old, and veined, happens to be grabbing onto the same thing. The hand is attached to a man - a tall, slouched soul with an intimidating aura, with bangs overshadowing faintly glowing red eyes.]

[He looks....disappointed.]

Tch.

cw: mention of ~recreational drugs~ and... child death

[possessum]

[ While most everyone else is partying it up at one of two Halloween Things, Peter has opted to do something equally fun! Hide himself away in his apartment like a reclusive spider, trying desperately not to think about what happened the last time he attended a party. (But it's there, it's always there; the thrum of loud pulsing music and idle chatter, he's sitting on someone else's bed and blurry from smoke, and then his little sister's there in the doorframe, she found him even though he finally managed to pry her off for a couple hours, only something's wrong, she's scared, she can't breathe—)

It's one of those nights where he needs to get high and stay high, but he needs to make a snack run first, so that he doesn't have to go out again later. He's planning on just rotting away for the rest of the night, thanks. Shrugging into his hoodie and dingy Converse, Peter heads to the closest convenience store, one he's frequented plenty of times with Robby. He's already a little zonked out, eyes half-lidded and glossy, barely paying attention to anything as he shuffles through the place, not wanting to think, wanting to just get numb (he killed his little sister), he just wants to shut down.

He's slowly, listlessly, reaching for a bag of something random and stupid when all of a sudden there's.... a hand there. It's a weird hand, and it takes Peter a weird amount of time to process what it means (that someone else is fucking there). Then it hits, and he's slowly looking up to see....

....he's not sure. Monster is the kneejerk that his mind whispers, then screams, and Peter's snatching his hand back like he's in pain, and from there it only gets worse, because he's suddenly scrambling backwards and his back hits the aisle behind him, causing several food items to clatter noisily to the ground. ]

Don't hurt me—

[immortalpoet]

[Ah, now there's a reaction he's familiar with.]

[It had been altogether too strange, to see people treating him like some regular citizen. At home, he's feared. A mere cough or sigh from him is enough to make even the most aggressive stand rapt in attention. When the young man balks, practically flies back, the first thing Vergilius thinks is this is how it should be.]

[The second thing he thinks is fucking hell.]

...I'm not. [He finally says, with a hoarse voice that sounds like it could belong to some ancient ghost, standing for eternity in a dark forest. He doesn't make any move towards the other, wary of spooking him further. He's displeased all the same.] Not going to hurt you, that is. Relax.

[possessum]

[ The voice that comes only makes Peter's flare of anxiety surge, because— yeah, yeah this person in front of him definitely can't be human. Some kind of... ghost, creature, monster, whatever the fuck you want to call it. He stays where he is, pressed against the aisle behind himself.

He can't stop his eyes from giving a quick glance towards the door, like he might run. Only he won't, he can't, because when you run that's when they thing starts chasing you, and he can't do that again. He can't.

So his eyes fly back to the person, and his chest is heaving. He does manage to hear the words 'not going to hurt you' but it does little to calm his panicky heart. ]

Wh-what do you want?

[ It doesn't come out as a challenge in the least, words trembling with nerves. ]

bite night!!! (cw: drinking, references to past enslavement)

[vampires_pawn]

[ It’s been, to put it lightly, a rough night for Astarion, and by the time he staggers out of the university dorms, it shows. Bruised and bloodied, ridiculous costume torn in several places, Astarion trudges through the cold autumn night, feeling… well, if he’s being honest, feeling not too dissimilar from how he’s felt many nights over the past 200 years. Beaten. Used. Puppetted.

That damned tadpole had given him hope. Made him believe that maybe now, he’d be free from dancing on someone else’s strings, free to be something other than a more powerful entity’s plaything. And then this wretched city had to burn that all away. Now, it’s clear that he’s simply traded hands—from one master to another, more inscrutable one.

And that’s not even to mention the full-blooded vampires who apparently inhabit this place with him. Astarion’s not so sure how much control they might be able to exert over another vampire’s spawn, but their presence is nonetheless another threat, another possibility of being plunged back into another century or more of darkness. Of helplessness.

Perhaps it also doesn’t help his mindset that Astarion has been drinking. Not enough to render him insensate, of course. Just enough to make the self-pity feel a little more warmly tragic than simply pathetic. The coarse, malty taste of beer still coats his tongue, a reminder that despite everything, Astarion is still perfectly capable of making his own bad decisions, no matter how petty, when the opportunity presents itself. Maybe he’ll make another, before the night is over. As late as it is, as much as he’s been through tonight, there's a wild part of him that still yearns for something more. Something of his own.

And something to drink, certainly. Astarion has found no animals to sate his hunger in this city; he hasn’t fed in almost two weeks.

Is it hunger, despair, or defiance that guides Astarion’s steps towards the lone figure he spies standing on the corner of one of the city’s winding streets? He isn’t sure. He isn’t sure he cares, either. Maybe it’s none of them at all. Maybe it’s simply muscle memory, the result of two centuries spent seeking out lonesome strangers on street corners to bring back to his master—a master who is no longer there to be fed.

Perhaps he’s only traded hands. But then, if he has a new master, maybe there are new rules as well. ]

Terribly late to be out wandering by yourself, isn’t it?

[ Astarion’s tone is friendly, but his eyes are watchful, almost nervous, as he observes the stranger. He doesn’t have a plan; just hunger and a bad night begging to be overshadowed by something worse. ]

cw: mention of ~recreational drugs~ and child death... and some minor saliva

[possessum]

[ It's been an especially bad night for Peter Graham, as well — and though he hadn't attended either party, they're still to blame for his own rough state.

(No, not to blame, not really. That falls on his own shoulders. The blame is his. The fact he can't stomach the thought of being in a crowded place, of the pulse of music and the flow of too many voices all around, and people smiling, laughing, mingling, is his own fault. What he'd done at that party back home. What he'd abandoned. What he'd murdered.)

He can't. He can't do anything. He holes himself away in the small apartment he's been staying in for these months, smokes weed until things feel numb enough (but they're never numb enough), and his heart still hammers in his chest, and the ache lives in his stomach, makes it hurt. Everything hurts. His throat is tight and his eyes are wet and whether they're awake or closed, he sees his little sister in two pieces.

He doesn't have any awareness of leaving the apartment. It happens, and it's not rare for Peter, no matter how much he deadbolts the front door or tries to put up obstacles to block his path sometimes. He wanders, and it's not quite sleepwalking, it's something else. Something lost, something drifting, something that ripples the boy's throat occasionally, as though it lives deep down inside of him and might be able to creep up out if his mouth parts open wide enough.

He shuffles, tall and thin, hair a mess of tangled curls and dark eyes half-lidded. And then he stops, goes completely still, completely silent. Time passes; the boy has no concept of how much. He has no concept of anything. 'Peter' doesn't exist. Shouldn't exist.

There's someone else here.

If he can hear the stranger, or perceive him at all, there's no inclination of it. The teenager just stands there, staring straight ahead, eyes unblinking and glossy, almost tearful for how wet they are, swollen.

But he doesn't answer. He doesn't even seem to have heard the man's voice, mouth tipped open slightly and moisture pooling at the corners, like a post-op patient who's wandering around before he's even begun recovering. ]

[vampires_pawn]

[ As far as testing the waters goes, Astarion’s greeting proves quite… illuminating, to say the least. Namely, it reveals that the stranger is entirely unresponsive—catatonic, even. Astarion circles closer, noting the blank stare, the slack, drooling mouth. The boy is in a stupor, though what the cause might be, he cannot say.

…Hasn’t Astarion heard, time and time again, that this city provides for its inhabitants' needs? Store shelves constantly stocked, food and drink free for the taking… Perhaps it has provision, too, for those among them with more specific appetites. Perhaps this is its provision—or maybe Astarion has simply gotten lucky. Either way: who is he to say no? The quiet whispers of hesitation within him are easy enough to stifle. He’s so hungry—and here this boy has wandered out into the night, utterly insensate and unresisting, unlikely even to feel the bite of teeth in his neck.

And besides, Astarion isn’t a monster; he has no intention to drain the boy dry. Just to take what he needs. Just enough to make him something that isn’t so pathetic.

But he’s getting ahead of himself. Astarion takes a moment to consider their surroundings, the quiet streets and looming buildings. He could just take a bite here and now but that feels… wrong. Exposed. A hundred dark windows above them stare down like accusing eyes and Astarion knows this isn’t the place for something so forbidden. But he remembers the park he’d passed a few minutes prior, with its cloak of trees and poisoner’s garden. Certainly that would offer a more private setting—a kinder one, even.

He reaches forward carefully, pale fingers only grazing the boy’s hand at first, testing for a response. When there is none, though, his grip will wrap around the stranger’s wrist and tug him forward with gentle insistence. ]

Come now, [ Astarion says, voice light and soothing. ] Let’s get you somewhere safe, shall we? This is no place to be strolling about at this hour.

[ Given how far gone the stranger seems, the sweet words are likely unnecessary. Astarion says them half to comfort himself, to provide some sense of familiarity to an encounter that would have been unthinkable for any other point in the past 200 years. Hunting for himself. If Cazador knew, he’d skin Astarion alive.

But Cazador isn’t here. And if the city wishes to punish him for the same—Astarion will wager that he’s had worse. ]

[possessum]

[ He would've just stood there, if left. Stood until this body became exhausted, perhaps crumpled right down onto the street to sleep. Or stood until compelled to move again for no particular reason. Whatever could be said to pilot this body now — whether a dream, a memory, an echo of something else's footsteps... — it has no agenda. Not just yet. This is only wandering. Lost.

(But something has happened, now. Someone has found this lost thing. And no matter how blank and empty the boy may seem..... deep down, something is caught. Held. Coaxed. Given direction, given purpose, even if only for a moment.)

He'll follow. And though there's still no real inclination that he can perceive this mysterious stranger who's creeped upon him in the night, the boy.... reacts to him. In the form of obeying, almost as though under a trance. The cool grasp to his arm has Peter moving that way, following him. It's slow and shuffling and dazed, but there's no resistance at all.

'Come now' someone says to him, and so Peter (and all of the strange, lost things within him) do.

Silently at first, though after several moments of nothing, he does begin to make a few noises. Nothing that's speech, only little movements of his tongue, a soft slurp as it nudges against the thick wet of his slack mouth. Then, abruptly, the muscle brushes the roof of it, clipped, making a cluck-sound. He'll do this every so often, in little intervals. But it doesn't seem to disturb or upset him in the least; it's calm. ]

DURING THE OCTOBER EVENT.

[strongroots]

[ The Halloween party hadn't gone well.

Word is out by now, the troubles that plagued the rebel party and what followed after. Maybe Peter's caught the word about it, or maybe he hasn't; Robby hasn't spoken much about the after effects, but would have admitted to the party turning out as a shit show. Turns out worrying about the city botching their party before the day was less of a concern than the actual event itself, and the aftermath hasn't been much pleasant for people, either.

For Robby, his approach has been to not put worry on the people around him. He decided this, he executed it, and so the sensations and unnatural happenings that follow him loud in their silence are kept sealed behind his lips. So he tries to keep it on the down low, but the city, it doesn't much appreciate a troublemaker. It doesn't like the way he ignores the call to the university, though the desire that was like a nagging itch has turned into an ache, a need not unlike withdrawals.

And yet he refuses.

And somehow, for it, Peter will have to be alarmed.

It's a thump that does it, loud yet dulled, something hitting hard against a wall of one of his rooms. It could've been his imagination (what isn't?), it could be unusual, even for him. But it comes from one of the rooms he's kept unoccupied, leaving items in front of it to keep it inaccessible. Nothing's changed about it from the outside, whether Peter knows that immediately, that depends on his location when he hears--

thump - thump - Smaller knocks, something hitting the wall. And then a yell, the rattling of a door handle; and then an even louder, desperate set of knocks to that same door.

A door in Peter's apartment. ]

[possessum]

[ It's yet another thing that Peter's kept his head buried in the sand about.

Some part of him wanted to go to the party put on by Robby and Tsuruno — two people he considers friends here. Maybe in another life, or another time in his own life, he could've easily done something like that. But not now. Not when the thought of a place with so many bodies and music and chatter and laughter makes him terrified. He'll think of Charlie, he knows he will. What he'd done. He won't be able to handle it. So he doesn't put himself in that position at all, even if there's a weird guilt for it, too. (He should go, help Robby and Tsuruno out, keep an eye on them as they try to do some good for this city, test things out.)

He hides. Certainly, he doesn't touch the city's party with a twenty-foot pole either, and part of that is because of the warnings about it, even though he wouldn't have gone regardless.

When the effects start affecting people, Peter really doesn't know much different. Maybe it amps up what's already wrong inside of himself, though he can barely remember if it does. He already loses track of time and self (though the compulsions are a bit different, and he's been having weird thoughts, and it's... it's all weird.) He tries to stay inside (even if he wanders in the night despite his best efforts not to.) But when he's in his right mind, he keeps to his apartment, where it's safe (he thinks.)

He's lying sideways on the sofa in the living room now, curled up on his side, dozing, when he hears it.

Thump.

Peter's eyes snap open with a soft hitch of breath. Immediately he's awake, and sitting up, mildly disoriented but the hammering of his own heart forces him into consciousness pretty quickly.

....Maybe it was imagined. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he's hallucinated(?) dreamed(?) things like that. Bumps and scrapes and sounds.

Then it comes again. Something against the wall— something against one of the bedroom walls. From inside. Everything in Peter's body freezes, and he can't breathe. From here he can see the hallway, the two bedroom doors closed as always, and the chairs that stay pressed up under their door handles to make sure they stay shut. He doesn't like open doors, can't risk them. Couldn't handle the thought of sleeping in a bedroom anyway, because something could come creeping and crawling in.

But there's something inside, now. Something trying to get out.

At once, the boy stands, fumbling backwards towards his front door. No, no, no, no, no— he can't. He needs to leave, needs to run, there's something in there, he can't breathe—

The thing yells. Knocks frantically, jiggling the door handle. It sounds like a person, maybe, and Peter's jerking his head back and forth, shaking it. But he can see that the chair under that door stays firm, just like he'd put it; the handle won't open. Not unless he moves the chair. The door's stuck shut; the thing inside is trapped. ...For now.

What if he runs for help and comes back and it managed to get free, though? Then he'll never know... what it is. What it wants. (And is this even real? Maybe it's not, maybe it's just ghosts, maybe he's just fucking insane, maybe....)

He's creeping forwards, slowly, eyes wide and nostrils flared. He comes to a halt some feet away, not daring to get any closer. Anyone else might think to grab a weapon, but Peter doesn't. Instead, he asks something, and at first it's very soft, trembling. ]

What do you want?

[ Then, something rising up in his chest, fear and horror raising his voice to a sudden shout over the knocks and rattles— ]

What the fuck do you want?!

[strongroots]

--Fuck you!

[ It might be the bizarre of responses. A pause after Peter's own exclaim, no rattling of the door or banging on its surface. But a voice coming again from the inside, and rather indignant, apparently, to Peter's confrontation. It could be an affronted ghost, aghast that someone would speak to it in such a way. Except--

The voice is male, familiar, if Peter can recognise it against the drumming in his own ears, his own heightened paranoia. A voice that stands defiant, and even attempts to continue to be so by: ]

You think you can stop me like this? Come in here, you fucking asshole! Fuck you!

[ It goads him on--or someone on, which is one way to try and get a door to open. A challenge that doesn't let through the actual anxiety on the other side, the owner's own fear--at being trapped in here, at hearing something, but the words maybe not the same as they are in real life.

It's taunting him first. Taunting that he can't get out. He can't escape, just like he can't escape this city, he can't escape anything.

(And what was he told? That fighting is a valuable skill to have here--even if it didn't help him in the mall. Even if his neck was broken, his own hands were around his mother's in turn.) ]

[possessum]

[ The surge of aggression that comes as a response freshly frightens Peter all over again, and he's scrambling backwards until he hits the opposite wall of the hallway, chest heaving up and down. There's... a person in there, and they're fucking terrifying — one of those people from back home? Like the lady who'd shouted at him? ...No, something to this is different, even if it takes his frazzled mind a few long seconds to realise, made easier the more that voice keeps going. The more he realises he knows it, even if it's never been aimed at him with such fire, before.

......... Robby?

Peter ogles that bedroom door, mind reeling. This isn't.. possible. This can't be possible. He needs to call someone, call Daniel, but..... Robby's in trouble??? Unless this is a fucking trap, and it very well could be, or maybe he's imagining the whole fucking thing, maybe he'll open that door and there'll be nothing on the other side.

Or maybe something that isn't Robby at all.

Peter stands there, trying to keep ahold of his own breathing, stop it from spiraling out of his own control. The last thing he needs is a panic attack. Then, fingers curling so tight into his palms he's pretty sure they draw some blood, he slowly moves to the door again. He doesn't move the chair blocking it, but he leans in closer, voice lifted again so that it can be heard, but this time not in a shout. ]

.....Robby? Is that.... fuck. Is that you?