#wickedsolo

Never in any amount of ever would Parker find himself in this particular scenario. It was a perfect combination of things that had to have gone wrong at those moments in time between those people. Parker didn’t inherently believe in Fate as the fae did, not to the extent that they did anyway but he did believe in the butterfly effect - how could he not? And this was the perfect example. Granted, all of this was him trying to rationalize it as he made his way down the sparsely-lit paths of Worm Row, breathed heavily, a film of sweat covering his forehead as both hands now attempted to cover the deep gash in his face. He tried not to stagger dramatically as he walked in the opposite direction of the people who frequented the sidewalk, instead his stance powerful and as controlled as it could be for a man who was easily drawing attention from passersby, sure he was appearing to them as the Phantom of the Opera the way he cradled his bloodied face in his hands. 

Fortunately, this was Worm Row so he most likely just looked like a drunkard or otherwise down-on-his-luck individual who frequented or possibly even lived there. He was neither. As he walked, still mildly dripping a trail of blood behind him as his Warden abilities fluctuated the fluid under his skin with the adrenaline and a temporary loss of control over it, he could feel more and more of the nerve endings in his face reacting to the wound, flames licking at the skin and any air that interacted with it sending a fresh stab of pain through him. He was relatively certain that he had some exposed bone. He was also keeping himself from shaking violently from the fear that still pulsed through him, making itself more aware the further he got from the jungle cat.  Every time he blinked, the image of what had transpired flashed into his mind, how close that claw had gotten to his eye, how close he was to being half-blinded. The foolish terror that he never seemed to retain or acknowledge was a thing, even now as he came to a halt in one of the dingy alleyways that dotted the street. He needed to pull himself together. This wasn’t like him. He was a Wright, and a stunted one at that, according to his family. Pain wasn’t a concept that he realized at the best of times and the aforementioned fear was all but forgotten the second he found out that he was okay. Like this. This was okay. He wasn’t blinded and the injury he sustained, while exceedingly more painful than anything he’d received in a while, would heal quickly thanks to his genetics. He just needed to get home and sew it up. For now, Parker finally removed his hands from his face, freezing in place for a moment as the texture of blood, his own blood, caking his hands and making them sticky proved to be an overwhelming sensation that he despised. For several minutes, the gash that split his face open from eye socket to jaw threatening tears to his eyes from the pain, he stood there, paralyzed from the sensations that bombarded him. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, deafening him to his surroundings. He felt heat emanating from his face, the blood that had oozed from it coagulating and filling his nose with the metallic scent of iron. He couldn’t touch anything without inadvertently leaving behind more DNA evidence. He couldn’t touch anything without getting dirt and debris on his hands that would stick like flies to glue paper.  Parker was accustomed to each of these sensations, just not altogether and altogether it created a cacophony, a maelstrom in his mind and he didn’t know what he needed to take care of first. So instead of doing anything, he stood there, hands quivering in front of him as he looked past them, unfocused in their unblinking stare. Sweat mixed with humidity mixed with tears streamed down his face, salt in the wound as it was pain on top of pain on top of pain. Unbearable. Palpable as the fear that caught his breath in his throat, strangling his windpipe, crushing his lungs under its weight. And then… Eerie stillness. The Warden straightened up slowly, methodically, all expression dropping from his face as he lowered his hands and one of them traveled to the back pocket of his jeans which always carried an embroidered handkerchief in it. Gently removing it from the pocket and folding it appropriately, he didn’t bother attempting to wipe his hands free from his blood, instead just pressing it to his face. His breathing returned, deep and even. Parker’s emotions, threatening to reaching a peak and subsequently cause what he heard his mother call a ‘meltdown’ in the past, had been successfully smothered under the guise of control and robotic calculation once more. 

He almost wanted to smile despite the pulsing in his face at his ability to maintain that control. He didn’t as that would’ve implied that he was close to losing it and he never lost control. While he never lost control though, that didn’t stop others from losing theirs and as he made to leave the alley, he was suddenly stopped by what appeared to be three individuals coated in tattoos, one of them missing a shirt and one of them definitely a fae as it sent his blood rippling all over again, successfully undoing that aspect of his control. “You don’t look so good, gramps.” One of them slithered through a mouth with missing teeth. “You do look rich though.” Parker’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t have time for this. “I’ve no quarrel with any of you.” He said though he made a special note to glare down the fae, who seemed to notice and it awkwardly looked away for a moment. “Let me through.” “No can do, gramps.” The leader of the three-man group tsk’d, motioning with his head for them to advance on the Warden. Naturally, Parker took a step back, back further into the alley that held him while he froze. The Warden sighed. “You really want to start an alley brawl over some perception that I have wealth?” He asked, frustration tingeing his tone. “Please step aside. I don’t have the patience to deal with you right now. Perhaps we can reschedule?” The leader scoffed loudly, the sound reverberating on the brick walls. “Sounds like you know how this goes. Just take it like a man, then.” He advanced, the other two behind him and there were sounds of retrieving items from pockets, the swish of switchblades that glimmered in the dingy light above them. If Parker was more self-aware, he would’ve easily noticed the parallels between his current predicament and those he places his subjects in. Unlike them, though, Parker wasn’t afraid. He didn’t carry a fear of death with him and now, as his blood roiled under his skin at the presence of the fae that was emboldened by working in a group, after his freeze and the threat of his emotions overwhelming him, he was just irritated. He needed to get home, he needed to keep this wound from getting infected; he was unfortunate last time. “I won’t ask again.” He warned in his blunt delivery. “You never asked.” The leader mocked, this time being so bold as to give Parker a harsh shove with a wide-palmed hand. The Warden staggered back, which didn’t happen often given his usual stiffness but try as he might to appear collected on the surface, he was still reeling from pain in his face that pounded his brain against his skull and shocked the nerves through the rest of his body. He staggered back and as he felt himself starting to fall, one of his blood-covered hands shot out to catch himself on something. And it did. His fingers snagged what seemed to be a purple crystal that strangely jutted out sideways from the otherwise-unassuming brick wall. He hadn’t even noticed it when he first entered the alley but it didn’t matter; it caught him and as it did, he seemed to be invigorated with strength and energy. The motion was fluid as he went from falling to launching himself at the leader of the gang, aiming a blood-coated fist for his face. “I said get out of my WAY.” The words were said with an unknown venom, a hiss of steam released from a pressure valve. Parker didn’t stop to think about where it came from, all he knew was that as he was falling, he was irritated but as he was rising, he was enraged. 

— He popped his neck harshly, breathing heavily as he wiped blood that was decidedly not his off the other side of his jaw, absently wiping it on his speckled jeans. He reeked of sweat and iron, the rest of the alley permeating with the stench of a fight. Three tattooed figures were slumped at his feet, one of them bleeding profusely from the head. Parker’s eyes lidded and he followed the spray to where the horn of a faun lay broken near the wall. He gathered his weapons that’d since been strewn about in the brawl, exhaling through his mouth as he grimaced openly from the pain that was returning to the exposed gash on his face.

A pause, looking at the horn.

Parker went over to it and carefully picked it up.

It was heavier than he remembered as he ripped it from the head of the faun with his bare hands.

Growing up with all consuming faith left little room for petty things like chance. Everything was by design, happened for a reason – whether to serve as a purpose, reward or a punishment. Zane wasn‘t sure which part this meeting of fate served but it definitely didn‘t feel like random chance.

She seemed young, both physically and in the way Zane himself was still young. A new vampire, unused to every pitfall that came along with it. Including whoever was responsible for the gaping wound in her shoulder, the unnatural twist of her forearm, the fear in her eyes. It couldn‘t be chance that she stumbled out of the woods at the exact moment he was outside with the baku, her red eyes catching his attention even more so than the noise her running made.

With a displeased noise, the animal scurried off inside. Zane moved closer to the stranger, hands raised in a pacifist display. „Hey, it‘s okay. Let me help.” For the first time since that fateful night all those months ago, he let his eyes shift hue on purpose. A gesture of understanding, one intended to portray trust, much like every time he threw out his job title in the hopes of invoking a sense of ease. This was the first time a flash of blood red eyes had done exactly that.

Having another person in the big house again was strange – after a mere week, he had grown accustomed to the echoing silence. “He came out of nowhere,” she explained as Zane led her to a couch, wincing as every movement jostled her injuries. “I tried to tell him I’ve never hurt anyone…” Nodding solemnly, he sat down beside her, eyebrows furrowed in worry as he assessed her forearm. Resetting something like this was way out of his comfort zone but she couldn’t go to the hospital and if it started healing this way…

“What’s your name?” he asked gently, trying to distract from the pain his prodding fingers were causing. “I’m Zane.” I’ll be your nurse for today.

Tear stained eyes turned to his, making her look even younger. “Sasha,” she sniffled, more trust managing to shine past the fear in her expression.

“Alright, Sasha. I’m not going to lie to you. This is going to hurt pretty bad.”

----

It never failed to look odd, the bags of O-negative sitting in the fridge besides the iced coffees and sodas he still bought and drank out of habit. The strangeness of it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind at the moment, focus entirely on feeding the almost-okay vampire on his couch.

She drank greedily, clearly not minding that her meal was served in a coffee cup, the make-shift brace on her arm holding up decently. “You have somewhere to go?” Zane asked softly once the cup had been awkwardly handed back and blood wiped from her lips. Sasha nodded slowly, bringing on conflicting feelings of relief and envy. She had a clan, or at least someone she could trust, to go back to. “That’s good.”

Getting up from the couch, he offered a slightly awkward smile. “Either way, it’s just me here. Lots of empty bedrooms if you want to rest up before leaving. Totally up to you.” She seemed surprised, whether by the offer or the fact that he was all alone in the two story house, he wasn’t sure. After a moment of thought, she nodded slowly, giving a faint smile of her own.

“I wouldn’t mind charging my phone…”

Spurred into action by the request, Zane nodded eagerly, moving for one of the bedroom doors. “Just, uh… get yourself settled! I’ll be back with a charger.” As he bolted for his room, there was a moment of normalcy. He knew how to do this, how to help. He was used to being a source of comfort during people’s worst moments, not part of the group responsible for said moments. Emilio’s words rang through his head. Yes, he had a job where he could help people. But maybe he could also be helping those that didn’t have a group of trained professionals to look after them.

Recently, due to issues in real life, my mental health has been in a terrible place. RP has always been a comfort to me. At the time of being removed from wickedrest-rp, I had been relying on it to help get me by. I'm generally a creature of habit, and really struggle with change, especially when said change is outside of my control. This is only exacerbated when I am struggling with anxiety and depression. But upon the mods of wickedrest-rp making an announcement telling the group they were going to reboot the entire plot and setting, I was genuinely willing to get on board. It was difficult to process, but I understood the need to refresh the environment. If that was the only announcement, I would have been able to move on, and maybe even reach a place where I was excited about the proposed changes, but there was one rule in particular that worried me the moment I read it. It stated each character kept throughout the reboot could only choose 2 established connections to keep. Though, at first, the choice of words made it sound like it wasn’t a rule that was going to be strictly enforced, as I continued to read on I was given distinctly the opposite impression.

This majorly triggered my anxiety because E, M, and V (three characters within wickedsrest-rp whose names have been redacted) were all integral parts of who Milo (my own character) had become over the course of his time in the group. I spoke to the muns of M, and V who both confirmed they would like to keep Milo as a connection. And given the close relationship between Milo and E, despite not immediately speaking to E’s mun, it became clear I could be facing a difficult choice. If E’s mun decided they would like to keep Milo, even if I cooperated to the best of my ability, and tried to embrace the sudden changes (something I was all too willing to do) I would be forced to choose 1 important connection to essentially abandon. 

I already knew from speaking to V’s mun that they were also deeply upset by the rule, and I began to spiral, unable to do anything but panic over the possibility of having to choose between M, E, and V. Anybody who has written in a group setting before can understand the anxiety inducing nature of such an uncertain, and unpredictable situation. The reboot was a handful of months away, and the muns of these characters might eventually choose to leave or drop Milo as a connection, but I felt desperate for some reassurance that if, emphasis on if, when the reboot arrived and all 3 muns wanted to keep their connection to Milo (while I mutually wanted to keep Milo’s connection to their 3 characters) keeping 3 connections could be an option for us all. I was very aware it might not come to that, and I was more than happy to support anybody hoping to drop their muse, or reboot them, I even stated this on multiple occasions, correcting the mods each time they intentionally misunderstood me as you can see in the screenshots below…

What I couldn’t understand, and what I was devastatingly upset by, was the thought of 2 people hoping to keep their connection and not being allowed to if their ‘2 connection quota’ was already up. They would be forced to re-write their characters meeting, and rebuild the already established connection from scratch, with absolutely no justifiable reason. The admins kept insisting it was to create a welcoming environment for new writers, but it felt like that would be at the expense of the writers who had been in the group for long periods of time. I also couldn’t see how 3 connections instead of 2 would make new players feel unwelcome when the rest of the group would be following the 2 connection rule. The mods were trying to tell me 1 additional connection would discourage new players. I had been in the group for nearly a year and a half, and an exception for an additional connection wouldn’t be made by the mods, even just to reassure me, and the other muns involved. As you will see in the screenshots below, I was told they didn’t want to set a precedent for exceptions, but I was also told nobody else in the group even wanted one. What is that if not an entirely pointless abuse of power?

A mun I was talking to about the unfairness of this rule reached out to a mod in a bid to explain they were upset by it. The mod brushed them off, and eventually this person felt if they continued to talk openly about their concerns their place in the group would be in jeopardy. They understandably chose to admit defeat. This particular mun was manipulated into silence. Though I do have proof of this, and full knowledge of the interaction, I don’t want to be responsible for this mun being removed from the group, and it isn’t my story to tell, so unfortunately I cannot provide these screenshots. Not long after this, I saw the mods do the same to another player when they reached out to voice some concerns. Myself, and this mun had been discussing the fact that the next 5 months of writing could arguably be considered worthless, and that it would be difficult to find muse, or the inspiration to form new connections knowing they were going to be erased when the reboot came. Because we both had similar questions surrounding this subject, they agreed to message the mods, passing along the response to me so that I could see what was said about the issue. I witnessed the mods brush them off too, and show a complete disregard for their unease. When this person suggested a poll to see whether players genuinely wanted such a large overhaul of the group, a suggestion the mun and I had discussed together, the mods told them the change would be happening no matter what, and though they didn’t explicitly state it would be happening regardless of whether players wanted it, they made it very clear they were not interested in making changes based on the views of their players. Their wording was careful to imply the mun was being listened to but at the same time they were writing off every concern that was raised without offering any genuine solutions.

While this was happening I was talking to people who had raised their concerns with the mod team, and been brushed off, or essentially told how they should feel. The mods themselves told me on more than one occasion that I should be excited rather than upset. They were actively encouraging anybody with worries, concerns, or issues to message them privately so that they could pressure, or manipulate them into silence. This was only giving the false impression nobody was upset, or anxious. I knew already, from speaking to my fellow members, that a lot of people had been seriously affected by the announcement. At least 2 people I considered friends went on hiatus immediately after the announcement to try and deal with the stress, and anxiety it caused them. I started to realise the mods were specifically asking people to come to them in private because their goal was to stop them from voicing their concerns to other players. This allowed them to maintain the illusion of every single player being excited for the reboot. Everything began to fall into place, and so I decided to ask the questions I had publicly, thinking even if other people didn’t come forward, at least my fellow players would see proof that not everybody was happy about the rules of the reboot. I wanted to make sure players knew there were members of the group who were upset. It also (I ridiculously thought) guaranteed I personally wouldn’t be brushed off, and my questions would not only be considered, but discussed, and answered openly in front of everyone.

I was admittedly worried that speaking out publicly in disagreement with the mods, no matter how polite I was, would put my place in the group at risk, something I really shouldn’t have needed to worry about. It goes without saying that in a group run by fair mods there wouldn’t be any consequence to open, and respectful discourse surrounding such a monumental change. But I was more worried about my potential future need for 3 connections, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t stop feeling anxious about it so I knew this was my only course of action. At one of my lowest moments, my friend who owns the coffee shop next door to where I live asked me if I was okay while I was picking up a coffee. Not only was I uncharacteristically quiet, for the first time ever I was visiting in my pyjamas, having deeply struggled to find the motivation to crawl out of bed, and dress myself. I burst into tears in the middle of her store. That’s how much this uncertainty was affecting me in my everyday life. Work was a pleasant distraction because I am lucky enough to love my job, but when I was given time to think, I was reminded of the fact that the hobby I leaned on as a mental crutch, the one thing keeping me sane through such a difficult time, was being ripped away from me, and the mods weren’t interested in listening to anyone who tried to explain how negatively the changes were affecting them.

This is why I steeled my resolve, and stubbornly pressed for an answer as to whether a 3 connection exception could be made if it ever became necessary. I did what I could to articulately explain my arguments. It was difficult due to my emotional instability, but looking back over the screenshots of the public conversation I believe I was polite and respectful. Fully aware that tone can often be misread in text, I even made a point of continually re enforcing the fact that I wasn’t angry, or intending to be impolite. I was trying to communicate to the best of my ability. Though, towards the end of the conversation, after so much confusion, and frustration surrounding being intentionally misunderstood by not only the mods, but muns scared of losing their favour with the mods, and subsequently their place in the group, who had been showing blind support, and being rude with me despite a lack of provocation, I will admit I was eventually rude in return. I made a short comment and deleted it minutes after posting. I then apologised for being rude despite the mods being rude to me first, and despite my attitude stemming from being ignored/deliberately misunderstood. 

The thing that I find the most upsetting, and part of what drove me to such a point, is the fact that I was being told different things by different mods. On more than one occasion it was heavily implied or even outright stated that exceptions could be made if we discussed them closer to the reboot. Each time I received one of these responses I felt an overwhelming rush of relief. Genuinely that reassurance was all I was hoping for, but it seemed each time I was reassured, it was then stated no exceptions would be made, regardless of when, or whether they were ever discussed. This constant up and down throughout the conversation only made it more difficult for me to stay calm. You can see just how many times the mods managed to contradict themselves in the screenshots posted below.

I stated multiple times, with emphasis, that I was willing to embrace the reboot. In fact, I wanted to keep all of Milo’s connections, so you could argue requesting 3 connections instead of only 2 was a very big compromise on my part, and proof that I was willing to work alongside the proposed changes to the group. Forgetting the fact that I was upset, and frustrated by the lack of respect being shown to the loyal players who would be losing a lot of writing/development, my anxiety over potentially having to lose 1 of 3 integral connections had started to cause me frequent anxiety attacks. There were at least 3 days leading up to being removed where the stress of the situation managed to bring me to tears. I couldn’t figure out a way to relax, especially following the public discussion, so I decided to private message a mod named Elliott. They were notorious among players for disregarding other people’s feelings, taking advantage of their power as a mod, and making selfish decisions within the group, however they were someone I had written a ship with, and who I genuinely felt understood by. When we had spoken in the past about situations I found difficult (Elliott decided to kill/retire Milo’s boyfriend which I struggled with despite encouraging them to take the character in any direction they felt inspired to) I thought I had been listened to, and understood. In the screenshot below you’ll see how this was maliciously thrown back at me so clearly I wasn’t understood, and Elliott didn’t respect my honesty, or the (what appeared to be at the time) healthy dialogue that followed it. 

Despite seeing how Elliott had treated other players who had spoken to them, I was somewhat naively hoping with more people coming forward, they might begin to see how big the issue really was, and how many players were feeling hurt/betrayed. But Elliott brushed me off in the same way they brushed off other players, intentionally misunderstanding me like the mods had in the public chat. I could see all of the mods were deliberately misreading my messages, misunderstanding me in an attempt to make me look far less reasonable than I was being, but I did my best to continue being polite with them. They were cold, and calculating, and I could see what they were doing, I could also see that it was working, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I allowed them to frustrate me, and rile me up into a state of abrasiveness, something I’m sure they were hoping to do so that they could accuse me of being toxic. But I refused to let them manipulate me into passive silence. 

It was around this point that I knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable staying in wickedsrest-rp. After being treated so badly, and realising how little the mods actually cared about me, it was already becoming a stifling, and uncomfortable environment. But like everybody else who was upset, I was torn. A year and 4 months of writing is an awful lot of development to throw away, and I genuinely enjoyed the group up until this complication. I had so many incredible plots I was working through, and for a long time wickedsrest-rp had been my safe space. If I lost that, I had no crutch, and finding long lasting groups isn’t always easy. That being said, I was hurt, angry, and betrayed, and so I stopped using my filter. I know I was rude, and I fully admit that, I’m taking responsibility for my part in this. But it’s important to note that I was only ever rude in response to feeling ignored, or disregarded. It could be argued I overstepped Elliott’s boundaries by replying to our private messages after they expressed a wish to step away, but I believe it’s far more nuanced than that, and you will see why in the screenshots below. 

The first time they asked to step away, I, albeit impolitely, responded. But in this response of mine I ended the conversation specifically due to Elliott asking to step away. Elliott was then the one to continue the discussion, and I cannot stress that enough. The second time they expressed a wish to step away, I replied to their final message exclusively in response to the arguments they had made before their request to end our interaction. I said what I needed to then stopped replying, and despite being blunt about it because of how emotional I was, I stated it was to respect Elliott's need for space. That means on both occasions Elliott asked for the conversation to end, I actively made an attempt to honour their wish, and officially close the discussion. To me, this feels like the opposite of not respecting boundaries.

Had I continued to message, or harass them, had I outright ignored their request, then I would understand the accusation of not respecting boundaries. It isn’t fair to treat this as such a black and white disregard for Elliott’s wellbeing, especially when my own wellbeing was blatantly being ignored which you are able to see evidence of in the main folder of these screenshots. I cared about them. I cared enough to acknowledge their request, in spite of how angry, and hurt I was. I made an active effort which is more than I can say for Elliott.

Almost immediately after the end of the conversation I was kicked from the group. I woke up from a nap to find the admins had removed me. They had then, almost comically, made a statement to the group claiming I wasn’t kicked because I disagreed with them on the connection rule, but because I disrespected somebody’s boundaries in a private message the group would never be able to see. Another clever way of trying to maintain the lie, to pretend everybody in the group was happy, and that the mods were only ever being respectful, and fair. I literally tried to end my conversation with Elliott twice because I was attempting to respect their boundaries. I’m not claiming to have done this well, but I genuinely made an attempt. Other people have done worse and not been asked to leave the group. As far as I’m concerned, the fact that the mods even felt the need to make such a ridiculous statement shows how obvious it is that I was removed because I had the audacity to ask for an exception to a ridiculous rule. 

They were nervous people might start to see through the cracks, see how controlling, and manipulative they actually are. No doubt the fear of speaking out against their authority has only grown in strength since I was removed, which means they have been successful in their goal. After a year and 4 months of no issues, after writing a ship with Elliot for months, they didn’t think to send me a warning, or a strike, or talk to me about the fact that they felt I had disrespected their boundaries. The mods removed me with no concern over why I was upset enough to send emotionally charged messages in the first place.

In the leaving message they sent me to explain why they were removing me from wickedsrest-rp, they stated reasons that were vastly different from the ones they offered to the group. Reasons that were blatantly not true, and very easy to disprove, such as ‘you are not willing to compromise, you are pressuring people into keeping their characters the same’. I’m going to re share a screenshot from the beginning of this post before sharing the message they sent me, so that you can blatantly see their contradictions. It would almost be laughable if it hadn’t caused me so much anxiety. 

Obviously, some of the reasons listed are more complex, based on the emotional responses of people I had spoken to, but some are outright dishonest, and you only have to read the conversations to see they aren't truthful statements. In the post addressed to the group the mods claimed I wasn’t removed due to their perceived notion of me being against the reboot. And yet in the messages sent to me they claimed I was being removed not just because I ‘disrespected boundaries’ but specifically because I was not being ‘open minded’ about the reboot. This is despite the fact that I never had any issues with the reboot, and made that clear on more than one occasion. My issue was with an unnecessary, and unfair rule the reboot would come alongside. The whole situation has been incredibly hurtful. The fact that other people felt the same way as I did but remained passive is also infuriating because it has allowed the mods to pretend private complaints aren’t happening, and insist everybody is showing positive responses to the announcement. 

Elliott lied to me about the people approaching them feeling satisfied, and excited after voicing their concerns, despite two people sending me screenshots of them messaging the mods in an attempt to explain how upset they were, messages Elliott themself had actually responded to. These players were essentially ignored by the very people telling them to reach out, and they were anything but comforted by the treatment they received. If anything, they felt gaslit, and manipulated into backing down.

It’s an awful way to treat people, especially considering people rp for fun, and grow attached to their characters. This group was my mental health crutch, and I really, really needed it. My safe space, and my comfort character have been stolen from me by people who are supposed to support, and encourage their players. It’s a HOBBY. I know players have spoken to the mods before about the rigid, and unempathetic way they choose to run their group. It feels strict, and uncomfortable, like a job where you are micro-managed by your ‘superiors’ and fired by them if they find any kind of personal motive to remove of you. Anybody who dares to question them or disagree with them has been removed either quietly, or under false pretences. 

I also find it interesting the mods used the fact that they were willing to reboot their own muses as a way of justifying their players being forced to do so. They clearly have no understanding of how different it is to choose that path, and have it forced upon you. It’s important to note the passive aggressive smiley in the screenshot posted below. The mods (Casey in particular) were the first to become rude with me during the public discussion, the frustration from this fact played a big role in how emotional I was when speaking to Elliott.

Everything about this situation shows just how out of touch they are with being a player in a long lasting group. It’s a heart-breaking position to be in, and I feel so justified in my anger. I know people who have been a part of their reboots in the past. They have told me with confidence that every previous reboot has been met with the same anger, and frustration, inevitably leading to people leaving the group, yet the mods ignore any complaints, and publicly claim the reboots are successful for the selfish motivations of rebooting their own characters, rewriting the lore/setting around what they want to change, primarily for their own gain. I guess they see their players as collateral damage. 

The worst part of this entire mess is that they could do all of these things while allowing people to make their own choices for their own characters, there is no reason at all for them to ignore their players, and not find ways to make these changes comfortable for everyone involved. After being removed, I was incredibly upset. I posted a public message on Milo’s account about how my experience with the mods had been terrible. I also sent an emotional ask (screenshots provided in the google drive because I’m genuinely not trying to pretend I didn’t have a strong reaction to being removed) making it clear to the mods that a lot of the group were angry, and upset with them. I was desperate for them to know people were too scared of them to come forward, and the treatment I received was exactly why. Recently I messaged them from a separate account (Milo’s account having been blocked by wickedsrest-rp) in the hopes of getting further clarification as to why I was removed. Part of me was genuinely hoping to have a serious conversation with them about everything that had taken place. 

I’ve been in a really dark place without being able to write Milo, and I was debating for a short while whether I might be open to re-joining the group if the opportunity ever presented itself. If writing in wickedsrest-rp allowed me that desperately needed respite from my mental health then maybe I could keep my head down and try to forget about the way that I had been treated. I know at least 2 people who have told me they would leave if they didn’t believe their mental health would suffer without the crutch of writing there. And I can genuinely understand that position. But part of me also knew, even if they didn’t want to openly discuss what had taken place, any dismissive, or rude messages would further add to my proof of their mistreatment. I was stupidly too anxious to remember to screenshot the ask I sent, but in it I apologised (profusely) for my behaviour, and requested a group message including all of the mods. I knew if I didn’t take responsibility, and lay it on thick, I had no hope of ever being contacted, so I did everything to appear sincere, and appeal to their overinflated egos. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what might have been achieved if they did decide to answer me, but it would have been interesting to see whether they doubled down on their dishonesty. I’ll never know how they would have handled further discourse, because instead of recognising my ask was overwhelmingly reasonable, and polite, and nothing about my behaviour was extreme enough to warrant outright ignoring me, they blocked the account I used to send the ask. They refuse to speak to me, and so I’ve become another mistreated player, another person they cast aside, and attempted (emphasis on attempted) to silence. 

But I won’t let them pretend they run a group of happy players. I won’t let them pretend they have treated me fairly and that I was removed due to ‘disrespecting boundaries’ rather than disagreeing publicly with an unreasonable rule. I will not let them sweep me aside so that they can continue the pretence of being well liked by their players. A lot of their group, and I know this because people have actively confided in me, are too scared to leave because they will have nowhere else to go. They are too scared to abandon such long, and complexly developed pieces of writing. So much so, that I know for a fact at least one person in the group was removed by them before without a fair, or justifiable reason, and said person was so desperate for a place to write that they re-joined under an alias despite how horrifically they had been treated. I refuse to do that. I won’t give these mods the satisfaction of supporting them again, and I’m not going to let them treat me like this without making it known to the community. If you’ve made it this far, I’m genuinely impressed. I sincerely thank you for hearing me out.  Hopefully you’ll appreciate this story, and consider leaving the group to find somewhere better, somewhere that appreciates you. Or you’ll avoid the group when it re opens for applications, and recognise the fact that, whoever you are, and whoever your character is, wickedsrest-rp doesn’t deserve you. 

He sliced cleanly through the saran wrap, the thin sheet of plastic taut between his hands. On the counter beside him, Matty and Genny’s school lunches – the latter with the crust cut off – waited to be packed away. Across from him, one eye, glazed like a sanded marble, stared back at him. Its twin was long gone. A jagged hole and silvery blood, an eternity stain, was all that remained.

“Hungry?”

Michael didn’t look up as he sliced the sandwiches in half and bundled them up. Claire frowned, like she always seemed to do, and the one remaining eye rolled in contempt. “Someone’s funny,” she replied. No smile to match his own mangled one. He laughed.

From the stairs, Risa’s footsteps bounded down and his smile widened as his wife came into the kitchen. Water dripped from her hair like blood and she tousled with it with an old towel as she headed towards her husband and the woman she could not see. She sat where the ghost sat, for a moment entrails seemingly spilling from her own cavity until Claire disappeared, like a light bulb that had suddenly shorted. Michael’s wife drummed her hands on the counter. “Make me one?” Her husband pushed the crust scraps towards her.

“To put the hairs on your chest,” he replied. She giggled. They each picked up one and held them out, knocking them together in toast. Peanut butter and honey. Salty and sweet. She would be the salty, so she’d claim. Oracle of sound character judgements.

Passing through the living room, Michael paid no attention to the withering looks that tracked his every movement. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet; even it seemed to protest him and he respected it for it. But his was the will that always won. He turned the corner, switched on the stairwell lights. “Matty! Genny! It’s 7!” Obedient progeny, he’d made sure of it. Bed covers tossed aside in immediate response. They loved their father, but they’d long since learned not to cause trouble. Not in the open, anyway.

They ate their breakfast with smiles and laughter and the dutiful husband and father kissed each of them – wife, eldest, youngest - on their foreheads as they all prepared to leave. He hugged them and they savoured his warmth against the cold and he slipped chocolates into his daughters pockets even though they weren’t meant to have them. As they left he stood at the door even though the wind turned his pale face pink and waved eagerly as the school bus came and went, as his wife backed out in her Chevvy Malibu that she’d dented but he’d never been angered with her for. The chill of White Crest, the North-East winter betrayed the warmth of the light that filled the tired house. Some people might have found it unwelcoming, but Michael didn’t mind. Too long he’d spent in the West. Maine wasn’t Canada, but it was close enough that it may as well be. He waited for a while after his family was gone, then closed the door.

The number itself was pretty innocuous. Harsh had never seen it before. Just a string of digits like any other, but something about it gave him pause. There was a feeling, an itch. He got a lot of weird calls. How so many people got his number, he’d never know. Probably better to ignore it, just let it go voicemail. He should just hit decline. Just let it go. If he didn’t pick up, it wouldn’t happen... whatever it was.

Harsh accepted the call. 

“Hello, Harsh here, who’s calling?” His voice was light, jovial even. No reason the weird feeling in his gut should creep into his very practiced phone voice. It was probably nothing. Nothing at all.

The laugh on the other side was low, husky. “Wow, you’re really going for it, aren’t you?”

Harsh’s brow furrowed. The bad feeling turned over and started growing. There was something... not quite familiar about the voice. But there should have been. “Excuse me? Sorry, who is this?”

“You don’t have to play nice with me, vampire. Actually, you don’t have to play nice at all anymore,” the voice said, sounding almost amused and almost angry.

If the blood in Harsh’s veins could have gone any colder, it would have. He gripped the phone tighter. No. “What are you talking about? Is this--are you with he coven? Where’s the old bat? C’mon, I haven’t been that bad, she doesn’t get to just drop this--”

“She does. She’s dead. Pretty hard not to drop things when you kick it. Well, I guess you wouldn’t know about that actually.” The phone crackled with a slow sigh. “Look, she’s gone, deal’s off. Congratulations.”

Harsh was shaking. His free hand clenched and unclenched. No, it couldn’t be... it couldn’t be over. Not like that. It had been years. So many good fucking deeds all going down the drain. He had worked. Not always perfectly, not a spotless record, but he had been trying damn it. More than he had in two hundred years. This wasn’t right.

“This isn’t fair.” He spat out the words, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t do this. I’ve been keeping my end--”

“We both know that isn’t true. Well, not all true.” There was a horrible hesitation, then another breath. “Look, I tried, alright? But we voted and you’re out of luck. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, no, c’mon, there has to be something--” Harsh was pacing now, hair standing at all angles as he dragged his hand through it again and again. This couldn’t be it, not now. Not here. He was in the perfect place to do some fucking good. He was doing good. He was swimming upstream and finally getting somewhere. “I can come back there, I can show them that I’m doing better. There’s gotta be something I can do, please--”

“There isn’t. The vote’s final. You’re up in White Crest right? That place has to be crawling with magic. You’ll figure it out.” 

The line went dead. Harsh screamed. He shouted and cursed and pleaded with the dial tone. It didn’t care. There might have been words in the anguished noise that left him as his phone impacted with the wall, but it didn’t matter. This had to be a mistake. There had to be a way to fix it. If he could just get in touch with them, if he could just prove he was doing better, then maybe... maybe...

His steps backed him up against the wall. He sank down slowly, head falling to his knees. This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t. He would call them back and it would all be a big joke. It would be fine. He just had to pick up the scattered pieces of his phone and force them back together. Just get there and force those witches to give it back. Make them fix him. 

Sometimes you have moments when you really realise that you fucked up. 

This can happen in a million ways, maybe you’d previously justified it to yourself. Somehow you’d told yourself lies and made excuses for why this wasn’t your fault and why what was happening was to blame on someone else, but in that very moment you know that this was no one’s fault but your own.

Winston was feeling that now. 

Their arms burned as they did everything they could to stop the snapping iron teeth from clamping down on their jugular and draining them of any blood they had in their veins. 

In that exact moment, Winston was reminded of everyone of their teachers who’d had this misfortune of teaching them their very worst subject. They would all be feeling incredibly smug now. Not to mention Ricky, who had loudly and vehemently told them not to do what they were currently doing, going after the Asanbosam was stupid. 

Hindsight was also 2020. 

Winston had assumed that they would be fine, after all they had magic and they knew what they were doing. They’d pretty much spent the entire time since Ricky had been hospitalised reading up about the best way to deal with vampires, the Scribe library had more information then Winston could’ve imagined and they’d learned the proper way to create and treat a stake so it was most effective against vampires. 

They’d collected their supplies together in a small rucksack before sunset. Before leaving they had assessed the assorted and very odd collection on their bed. A crucifix, a vial of holy water, three stakes, a flashlight, some flares that they’d found in one of Dee’s shed (they’d also found some buckshot but had been too afraid to ask Dee if they could borrow her gun), some energy bars and a very sugary drink had all been packed into the bag alongside a first aid kit and their phone, wallet, keys and some headphones. 

They’d set out into the night, still driving Ricky’s very dented truck, hoping that the scent of Selkie would be thick enough on it to attract the Asanbosam like it had last time. They drove quickly as the sun began to set and a very full moon began to rise, they were heading for the spot where they had been attacked. Parking the truck up on a small country alley they carefully hiked to where Ricky had been dragged from the truck. Reaching their destination, settled down to wait.

It took them ... maybe ... five minutes to get bored. 

Originally they’d planned to sit their vigilant, watching like a hawk, ears like a fox, crouching like a tiger, hidden like a dragon. There could be no distractions, only focus. All of their senses had to be entirely fixated on the task at hand. After all, just a single clue missed could lead to their death or worse, the Asanbosam getting away. But it had taken maybe ten minutes more before they’d compromised with their own boredom and slipped a single ear bud into their left ear and had started listening to a podcast.

Even then, it had taken hours before anything happened. They kept looking at their watch, the seconds ticking away into minutes, the minutes turning to hours and by eleven in the evening Winston was convinced that they weren’t going to find anything. 

Maybe all of this had been a waste of time. 

Their eyes began to grow heavy, and it didn’t take long until they felt themselves dozing off. 

They jerked awake, pulling the energy drink from their bag and drinking it as quick as they could. Swallowing mouthful after mouthful of the fizzy and somewhat artificial tasting drink praying that this was going to help keep them awake.

It was in that moment that Winston decided that ‘stake outs’ sucked. They was bored, they were tired, they were uncomfortable, their neck was sore and they were literally no closer to dealing with the thing that had put their best friend in the hospital. 

But they’d waited this long and they weren’t going home without doing what they’d come to do, so they kept going. 

An hour or so later and they heard it. 

The rustling of the trees. The leaves and branches moving as a silent weight danced from branch to bough to trunk. 

Winston held their breath, convinced that their moment had finally come. After all of the boredom, after all of the discomfort that evening held in store for them. After ignoring all of their friends' texts, after ignoring Ricky’s advice, after everything that they weren’t doing that they knew that they should be doing. 

Winston was going to get the chance for vengeance and to keep the community that they loved safe. 

They waited, and they waited, they watched the time tick by on their right wrist. 

Yet there was nothing.

They waited some more. 

Still nothing. 

A further five minutes and they were convinced they had imagined the sounds.

They had obviously made a mistake. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t them, they weren’t a slayer and they weren’t qualified to be out here.

They wrestled down their anxiety, but there was a single thought that wouldn’t leave them alone, that kept bubbling to the top of their thoughts and stream of consciousness. 

Maybe this was too much, maybe they should leave.

They sat there for five minutes longer, waiting in silence, arguing with themself. Should they stay or should they go? 

Then a branch cracked and without warning the face of the Asanbosam had come into view. 

Winston remembered seeing it in the darkness int that moment. They weren’t sure what had happened to it, but it seemed to have obviously been in a fight of some sort, and Winston didn’t just mean from the other night when it had attacked Ricky. This was something more. It’s tail in particular looked as if it had been badly burned by something or by someone. There were grizzly slashes and claw marks along the things' side and dark ichor like blood still seeped from some of it’s wounds. It glinted gently in the rays of moonlight.

But Winston didn’t really have time to pay attention to any of that, because it’s eyes were what terrified Winston the most. 

Two crimson spheres hanging maybe a foot away from their face. Winston was so shocked that they barely had time to yelp before a clawed foot swung down and pinned their shoulder to the tree trunk. Painfully Winston felt their flesh tear as the claw rended it apart. The asanbosam hoisted them upwards, dragging them off of the ground so that their feet hung there. Helplessly they flailed, kicking their legs, hoping to push this thing away. 

They panicked, trying to think. They had prepared for this. They remembered that the vial of Holy water was in their jacket pocket and with their free arm they reached for it, managing to fish it out and pull the cork off of the top of the vial with fingers that shook and fumbled. 

They tried to throw it at the thing, but their throwing arm had never been quarter back worthy, they’d never been a pitcher and they weren’t about to start now. With that throw they were convinced that they wouldn’t have even made it onto a children’s softball team, let alone something like little league. 

The vial didn’t even shatter, it just bounced off of the Asanbosam’s burned and clawed skin. There was a sizzle as a few drops sprinkled on it’s skin, but Winston watched as the majority of the holy water leaked out of the vial as it hit the ground. It didn’t take the soil long to absorb it all. 

Winston was panicking now, the other clawed foot was digging into their shoulder and as they scrabbled for the stake, they knew that they were quickly running out of options. 

Their skinny fingers were sweaty as nerves encompassed them. They stretched and groaned, doing everything that they could to reach the pocket of their jeans in which they had stowed their stake, they struggled and flexed but to no avail. 

The claw dug into their shoulder, cutting it deeper then it previously had and Winston screamed in pain as they felt blood seep into their clothes. 

They knew they had no choice, the vampire leered down at them. It’s iron jaws snapping as it prepared to kill Winston, ripping out their throat and feasting on their blood. Winston panicked, and with the last of their strength they caught the mouth. 

They could see the time ticking past on their watch. 

3:15:17. 

3:15:18. 

3:15:19. 

The vampire forced itself closer, Winston’s own meager strength hardly enough to keep it’s jaws from closing and certainly not enough to stop it in the long run. 

It was almost as if they could feel the cogs of their watch turning and whirring on their wrist, time was running out and Winston would be dead any moment soon if they didn’t do something. Do anything. 

They weren’t entirely sure what happened next, the vampire moved in to bite, Winston knew that they couldn’t stop this thing forever, they would have to give in soon.

A final surge of adrenaline shot through them, a last stand, they had never got that movie analogy until now, but as the power erupted from them they had to admit that they couldn’t tell you what had happened, all they knew was that one moment they were being pinned to a tree and the next the Asanbosam was cowering away from it. 

Winston wasn’t sure where the fire had erupted from, they were glad however that fire was apparently the element they could control, or at least magic, they weren’t sure why but it came easiest to them. 

Exhausted as they were, they scrabbled on the ground and plucked up the stake. The Asambosam had clearly been hurt already, then it had been severely burned by Winston. It tried to get away, tried to crawl from Winston, but Winston was quicker, despite the fact that their bones felt like lead and the exertion it took to scoop up the stake was greater then any they’d experienced.

Stumbling, they managed to pin the thing to the ground, raising the stake, they drove it downwards through the chest of the asanbosam and through it’s heart.