#ir open

Being the Warrior of Light meant that many died at your hands, and many can die because of your actions. It is a life heavy with weight, a soul shackled to responsibility, duty, and a morality only you can decide the limits of. Where your personhood started and your figurehood ended was another matter, and eventually you had to come to terms with who you are now.

That was why they had become a clown. And why they were amusing a small crowd with simple magic tricks and other illusions. Some were card tricks and misdirection, others were more prop focused but nothing too fancy.

And some of it was mime routines. Physical comedy. The kids loved it. The parents were attracted to it. Why?

Yesteryear was a dead city, abandoned by all except the half-ghosts of ghosts and random critters. It was a silent, and calm place, on its good days. Some days were worse, but eh, what can you do? We’re on island time, bay-bee.

On this day though, there was a new sound, a new smell. The sizzle of meats, the crunch of a knife through hearty vegetables. Smoke rose from a street intersection, where a number of makeshift stands had been erected, each with a few equally makeshift stools set at a counter. Each stand had its own fried or grilled food, and each was operated by a shadowy being, much like the ‘citizens’ of the city.

Some of those citizens had even taken enough of an interest to sit down, but they were still wary of anyone with a bit more substance to their form. But, hey, wouldn’t you? Maybe not. I’m not your boss. Hey, speaking of boss...

A handsome but distant mysterious man operates a counter, barbequeing some meats, preparing some vegetables, fishing around in a cooler for drinks. He takes a break every once in a while to fan himself with a paper fan, which also blows various good smells of cooking food through the city streets.

He notices you. “Finally took notice of our place, huh? You look tired. Pull up a stool, I can take care of you.”

snuffle snuffle....

Open starter! No cap for now.

Sylvanas stands outside what the stranger referred to as her “accommodations.” House 124, Fibonacci. She stares bullets into the domicile as if she were at war with the thing, as if it’ll burn to the ground if only she doesn’t look away.

The architecture is entirely unfamiliar. This world... it’s unlike any she’s ever laid eyes on, and yet the structure before her is mundane. Almost laughably so. Hardly fit for a queen.

She has not moved in some time. It’s been what feels like eternity since the human drove away, leaving her stranded in an infinite abyss shaped like a nuclear suburb, with no possessions to her name save for an infuriatingly cheerful leaflet, a measly longbow and what appears to be some infernal goblin contraption.

She takes a moment to study the mysterious rectangle of polished obsidian in one hand. Well, surely the lack of any big red button rules out the possibility of goblin origin. She has half a mind to destroy the thing, but when she squeezes, the device does not give. How much did they take from her...?

Finally, she pockets the machine; a secret to be unraveled soon enough. Digging one final sneer into House 124, she begins her approach, longbow at the ready.

Her steps are careful, as if approaching some great, slumbering beast she intends to slay. The banshee places a hand gingerly upon the knob and swings the entrance open. She steps inside, and the door clicks behind her.

With the swiftness of a soldier, she nocks an arrow and pulls back the string, ready to fire. Yet nothing leaps for her throat, no pressure plate sinks beneath her feet, there is no smug adversary narrating her demise. She doesn’t know what she's expecting to find, but as she gazes upon her surroundings, the reality of her situation sinks in: the one reality she was not ready to face.

It’s a normal house.

She returns the arrow to its quiver and slings the bow across her torso. Then, inhaling through her nose, she releases an ear-piercing shriek. The wail of a banshee is notoriously loud, and the walls vibrate with the Dark Lady’s frustration.

        “ oh! don’t worry - i’m not hurt. a lot of people think it’s blood, but it isn’t. ” roswell wasn’t the most perceptive of people, but it had been a common enough misconception when they were new that they’d gotten used to it. the dark red seeping from the joints in their armor must have looked uncomfortable at first glance, but most of refuge’s inhabitants got accustomed to it rather quickly.

–– You blink, and the world shifts into view again, and suddenly everything has been broken and stained. Sirens begin blaring in the distance, and chaos has erupted. Your eyes widen as a civilian is thrown back by nothing at all, and another person lunges in to try to help only to be thrown back too. You fire up All For One, ready to jump into the fray to try and do what you can to help. You can’t just stand by and watch this happen, you just can’t. 

Lunging forward, you try to activate Full Cowl, to scoop some of these people up and get them to safety. But something short circuits, and fails. Unbeknownst to you, it’s because your powers have been limited by the forces of the island. But for a moment, you think it’s because of you. Because of the shock that rippled through you as you heard the broadcast above. 

                  “All Might, the symbol of peace, has fallen in action.” 

You barely turn your head to see the large, cracked screen above. Just a bit of his hair is poking out from the sheet they draped over him.

It’s something that’s been lurking, bubbling quietly in the back of your mind; a possibility you’ve tried to ignore. The reason he hasn’t shown up yet, why there isn’t even a trace of him in Spirale. He died. He took on too much, went too far, and… he died back home, didn’t he? 

The claw that sends you flying backwards isn’t what knocks the air out of you. It isn’t your back slamming into concrete. It’s grief. That’s what hits you harder than anything.