"Perfect," he muttered, breath curling like smoke.

Alone. Of course he was. That was the whole point of this twisted exercise—drop them in like chess pieces and see who made it out intact. Pandora called it Hell Week. Juno called it "Trust Falls With Extra Steps and a Side of Death." He flexed his fingers, feeling the electric hum of ink beneath his skin. Two constructs at a time—any more, and he’d burn out. No weapons, no supplies, and a biome designed to kill him in creative ways. Fantastic.

His eyes swept the terrain—a jagged stretch of frost-rimed rock, a canyon entrance yawning ahead. Dangerous, but better than freezing in the open. He exhaled and raised his hand. Ink flared to life, forming a thin, glowing chain in his grip. Just a test. A reminder he wasn’t defenseless. Then—movement.

Juno tensed. Ally? Enemy? Or one of Pandora’s delightful murder-droids? “Well,” he called out, voice cutting through the stillness, “if you’re here to kill me, at least have the decency to introduce yourself first.” And then, he waited.

Closed to: @cigarettesandgunsmoke How many hours has it passed? Or days? Maybe he was being hopeful but only fifteen minutes had passed through the clock since the last time he stopped running. His breathing was heavy and puffy, sweat running down his forehead and slithering down his chest and back. It was not easy to run in shallow waters. His movements were hindered at best – but the fact that anything that had came close to having him for lunch how laid face down on the murky waters was a good thing. How many of those things had he killed now? Five? Ten? More? Regardless of how easy it was to just blow the beating heart inside the monster's chest, David still needed to recover. Constantly empowering him to not feel fatigued or complain of sore muscles whenever he moved through the water was… a tad exhausting. He would need to stop at some point. Find shelter – maybe drag one of those things along for the ride and have their meat as sustenance. How good would crocodile meat taste? Fingers danced over his damped hair as he pressed his back against a tree, the humidity of the bark making his own clothes even more wet than before. Priority one was to find a place to lay low. Rest for a while and then proceed to extinguish as much of the local wildlife as possible. If anything – it could help his fellow agents navigate the murky waters without being devoured.

a loud sigh escapes daemon's lips, feet dragging against the ground. sure, every agent had to endure physical trials to join pandora's ranks, but jasper was less about physicality and more about the domain of the mind.

"can't we take a break? we've been trekking along for bloody years now." he couldn't even be assed to bring forth a screen, his body and mind exhausted from the legwork he'd been putting in. "at least let me try tracking a cache."

It had been hours since the Hell Week began. Maybe days? It was hard to keep track when the passage of time felt frozen. Nothing but the dark waters of the marsh on one side and muddy ground with trees as tall as the eye could see on another. The water felt cold - dark and menacing - but that shouldn't really be a reason to refuse the need to wash. Yes, his wounds and injuries healed rapidly. Perhaps too rapidly even... but the dry blood remained. And after a while, it would become a nuisance, mostly because some of the things that lurked in the darkness were drawn to its scent. What purpose would it serve to be a walking, breathing target for everything that ate flesh amidst those waters? What purpose would it serve to beat everything that came his way if all he did was fight on a near-constant basis? Even he needed sleep. A moment of respite. Hands drown the half-ripped shirt onto the dark waters – scrubbing the dried-up blood as hard as he could. His pants were close by – laying on a rock to be collected after. What a way to go if something were to surprise him now: just a half-naked man in nothing but his dark underwear doing some washing and cleaning. It would be quite humiliating if something were to fatally wound him… even if Prometheus had no idea what would be deemed fatal for him. There were some powers that were deadly even to himself… but those were rare. Someone even mentioned decapitation could be deadly for him – but that was not a theory he was willing to try out simply for the sake of curiosity. His movements halted. There was some noise in the background – steps perhaps? Could it be a predator lingering nearby, waiting for the best moment to attack or one of those murderous robots that had inflicted most of the wounds he had healed from so far? “Who’s there?” Muscles tensed as Prometheus stood and turned, the cold, rancid water moving around his calves as he turned toward the origin of the sound. He didn’t have any weapon right away – but he would bash whatever came his way with fists if needed. And there were plenty of rocks submerged in the mud. Everything around him could – and would – be used as a weapon. “Show your face!” Was it wishful thinking to hope for another agent, despite his current state of undress? Not that he was shy when it came to his body but – it would be so good to see another face – any face – that didn’t belong to the animals lingering beneath the marsh’s water. “Last chance, darlin’.”

Sink Marshes Biome

Open to: Anyone // Location: The stone canyons

The agency's directive was simple: survive. The biomes weren’t just chosen for their isolation or danger—they were tests, each one meant to break you down mentally and physically, pushing agents to their limits. The rocks loomed like jagged teeth, sharp and unforgiving. Every step he took echoed off the walls, a constant reminder that he was utterly alone. A few birds of prey circled high above, their screeches carried on the wind, but there was no one to hear it. No one to see him. The perfect place to hide away from the world, where his ability—his curse—couldn’t hurt anyone. His gloves were tight against his hands, worn and weathered from countless missions. He never took them off. Not even to eat. Not even to sleep. He had to stay in control. He had to. The idea of accidentally touching something, of decaying it with the simple press of his palm, terrified him. One slip-up could turn the world around him to dust. He reached the edge of a cliff and peered down. The drop was steep, jagged rocks scattered like shattered glass far below. Not much room for error here. It would be a challenge to navigate the terrain without tripping. His breath caught in his chest, the creeping feeling of vulnerability always lingering in the back of his mind.

⚛️- "I'm sorry. I am listening. I'm just trying to gather my wits before I start to unravel." Kevin. That is what most of the agents knew him as. That is what made him comfortable in these situations. His primary directive, in all of these encounters and exchanges, was to be thee asset. As most of his division had been trained. Immediately, there was a lack of apparent technology so he'd have to rely on his survival skills. Errant eyes and the shifting gaze continued to trace their perimeter as if hunting for prospective wholistic sources for medical supplies. Think. He wiped his brow watching limbs twitch from the vicious glamour toad. Its skull crushed under the mighty weight of his telekinetic squeeze. Fragments of bone, blood, and tissue decorate the beach of a fissured landscape.

Thankfully Kevin wasn't a betting man. He hoped for a mini "vacay" from the polished floors and brushed steel. Yet, the agent is always to be ready.

THE SINK MARSHES

his two goals were to last the week and to ensure no one died under his watch. staying out of trouble was the optimal way to survive. no one said they were required to explore the deadly battleground. 

" we need to attract other operatives somehow. how far do you think we can go without being spotted by one of those creepy decoys? "

@harbingerofrot