Prison World #3: Panultima (tw violence, torture, coercion)

[spoofer]

Characters: Ensemble Cast, maybe even you!
Summary: The third prison world in Xistentia is a terrifying subdimension where sentient people exploit each other in order to run technology that will fend off D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. The 'ruling' class, Primus, are bound to a system of coupling (see: fake dating!), legacy and nepotism, whereas the Servus are put through an elaborate media circus (see: Hunger Games). You're here to study this world. And perhaps even to free those captured.
Date(s): February 8-20
Warnings/Notes: Violence, torture, coercion

Panultima

You cursed your gods and died

The Primus Life

If you thought Earth was a tough neighborhood, welcome to Panultima. Here, life is sweet. At least, as long as you're one of the Primus class.

It's a sprawling city of wicked spires and elaborate canals, covered in a luminous, translucent shield. Rather than a circular planet resting in orbit, instead, it's a flat plane of matter suspended in space, the foundations of the buildings rooted in only a hundred feet of stone and unknown technology. But the vast majority of citizens care little for that. After all, the city has every amenity and experience one might desire.

Restaurants line the streets. Theater is at an apex in development, with a particular focus on integration of moral philosophical themes. Gondolas run the canals, whereas a railway races over the winding laser-track in the air. Fashion is diverse, colorful, characterized by wild shapes, patterns, and accessories. Food imported from worlds both thriving and dying across the multiverse. At the numerous colleges and institutes, premier technology and opera are under constant invention and reinvention.

COUPLE STUFF

Primus culture emphasizes couples. Trios. Larger groups of lovers than that, even. After all, with romantic love and loyalty to care for, and survival hanging on it... who has the time or energy to care about justice for all?

Not these guys!

In this world, the mission and pleasure roll together well. The implant picks up information, so your main job is to explore. Perhaps you and your partner might enjoy yourself a glow-in-the-dark cocktail in a smoky bar where a two-headed singer is providing the music, a tour of the massive shield generators in the sparkling complex. Or pick fruit from one of the hundreds of bonding trees in the city's central park— so named, because it requires successful completion of questions to "the newlywed game" for each before one of the luscious, sweet fruits is released from a vine.

THE SERVUS LIFE

But for the little guy, life is considerably shittier. Welcome to the arena, the fully manipulable bubble reality set up to torture the slave class. The emotions of pain, fear, anguish, and wild, adrenal victory.

Most days, it looks like a forest— incidentally, very much like Xistentia. There are dozens of hybrid creatures in it, most of which are edible, others toxic, several very dangerous. However, the ground below can change at any moment, turning into mud or belching acid baths. Or you might find yourself abruptly attacked by a bear with biological armor growing from its huge shoulders. The control room, operated by Primus, is concealed from view. Its role is to keep the environment challenging for those competing, shifting the settings of the place to advantage some and cripple others.

But the arena's programming isn't the only threat.

Instead, you have a motley host of macabre killers, other Servus locked up in here just like you. Some have survived in here for years, earning favor from audiences thanks to the amount of pure horror they squeezed out of their victims. Some of the better-known brands are the Bantam Butcher, a fallen angel whose first kills were those who took his wings, and now thrives on torture. The trapmaster seems to have control over environmental factors that rivals the control room. And the baker trio will eat the flesh from your bones if they catch you.

For infiltrators, the challenge is worse. Not only might you need to kill, survive, and explore the arena with your implant— but if you want to save the very same people who are out to murder you, how are you going to do that?

Breakout!

Several days into the mission, and that's when it happens-- the control room shuts down, under attack. And suddenly, there's pandemonium. Within the arena, some of the servus know immediately what this means— and they're willing to make a break for it, cutting each other down, crippling each other if it means that the Primus might have slower-moving people to contend with and allow them to escape. Others seem to have long since given up, failing to respond as the trees suddenly go dark and motionless, the birdsong dying into silence. After all, where is there to go? It's either D.E.S.T.I.N.Y., or to join the system that hates them, isn't it?

Are you inside the arena, or out? Are you there to help the fleeing Servus, or are you merely ready to scramble on home yourself and save your own skin?

Footnotes

1. Please ensure that threads are marked with appropriate content warnings!
2. The plotting post for this event can be found here, and the original announcement with some other details is here.

Comments

throws glitter everywhere and fingerguns all while vibrating uncontrollably!!!

[shadowblends]

[long ago, kurt couldn't have proceeded like this. his feelings would have sat and grown, until they were an insurmountable tangle of words that he'd constantly have to force down and hope wouldn't creep forth at the most inopportune moment. no, this time — with help from some friends — he's decided to be straightforward and completely upfront in the moment regardless of how his heart has been threatening to crack his ribs, burst forth in a gory show of peculiar affection.

which is all terrifying in and of itself, but when it means dealing with a boy like kavinsky, someone who's not used to being called out, things seem harder. that's not including any stubbornness, jerking around, self-deprecation or inappropriate jokes yet either, so he's got a feeling there's a lot more to look forward(?) to.

even though he's flush against kavinsky's back, it doesn't take a genius to notice how the dream thief can't decide if he's at ease or on edge. all nightcrawler can think to do is tighten his arms, gingerly squeeze the pale boy in his hold and be frank.]

Why prolong the inevitable? [and that is the most truthful thing kurt has said to someone.]

[pillz]

[that's a terrible thing to say to a chronic liar, and kavinsky is. was. might still be. he doesn't know anymore; he feels fractured and strange, which has always been true, but he feels it more keenly now. once upon a time, he had an armor of caked cocaine he could hide behind.

his undead heart slams the brakes in his chest, a split-second before he hits the ones on the hovercraft. they start to slow abruptly, but not violently, coasting to a stop on the edge of the glassy track. the vampire half-twists at the waist, reaching to pull the mutant's arm, urge him off the craft. there isn't a lot of force in it, but there is something scrabbling, insistent, almost childish about the way kavinsky handles him. he used to be cool, if kind of slimy. he's not that now.]

Do you know what 'make believe' means? [he hisses. he glances around. the other machines whizzing by are far and few between, and there's little chance even with vampire hearing that they might catch wind of this conversation. but for that instant, he pretends it's about that, because it's easier than asking,] Do you even know what I fucking am?

I'm a motherfucking monster.

[that isn't a nikki minaj quote. or if it is, it's wildly unintentional, blurted out as a substitute for deeper and more difficult truths. he'dve called himself a monster any time in his life— worn it like leather or shitty cologne. the shift in tone, the devil in the tails, that's where the ugliest, most important parts of the matter is, and that he's not willing to say. he can barely look at kurt now.]

[shadowblends]

[the hovercraft lurches enough that it surprises kurt, making those iridescent eyes widen with surprise once they come to a complete stop. he blinks, trying to comprehend what exactly made the other boy cease movement, to break the theatrics of their 'relationship' so he can persuade him off the board. it's odd how adamant he is, the way his arm is tugged-- almost like something's not quite right.

all of a sudden, regret pools in the pit of his stomach, bile rising up his throat, burning his tongue and leaving an awful taste in his mouth. he swallows it down, though, lets kavinsky lead them away from the other people nonchalantly floating here and there.] Sure I do, [he claims simply.] Don't you? [a slight smile, partially forced past his somewhat uncomfortable state.

except, it would seem even kavinsky's having trouble maintaining eye contact, which kurt's bizarrely grateful for. his stomach still doing flip-flops, he heaves a breath, long and drawn out as he reaches a hand up, grips the shorter brunet's chin between his thumb and first digit.] Then what does that make me?

[he tightens his hold, firm enough to coax kavinsky's gaze upward.] I don't care about you being a vampire if that's what you're worried about. [a beat.] Or perhaps you mean your past? Should that be the case, you've been inside my head— experienced firsthand what sort of [pause, another breath] horrible shit I've gone through.

And you know what? That's not even the half of it. [his breath hitches this time, like it's becoming more difficult to keep talking.] My point is: I don't care about anything except the here and now, Kavinsky, and whatever you decide to do from there, I'll be at your side— fake marriage or no. [kurt still isn't fully sure why, but he cares. he cares a whole lot and he's hoping it's enough.]

SCREAMS I AM SORRY KURT tw homophobia etc. dysfunctional screaming.

[pillz]

[you know what the worst part is—

--the worst part, without a doubt, is that this is everything kavinsky has ever wanted to hear. promises to stay, declarations of fidelity, fingers under his chin and an unblinking stare. affection. maybe not as much sex as he'dve liked, but under the mess of yacht lights and bright white cocaine, kavinsky's most vulnerable and pathetic reality was that sex, just like the boats and drugs, had never been enough. had never even been the fucking point. it's just easier to talk about sex than it is the love that he was hoping to steal with it.

it's not that kavinsky has never been offered this before. it's that— the only time it was, maybe a time-and-a-half, fate snatched it out of his hands. aric disappeared into the ether, and vex turned out to be a desperate dream that might as well have been cut from an outright fucking lie. and kavinsky has enough goddamn insight to recognize the common factor.

himself. (dundundun.)

and so it's not kurt's fault, of course, it's not kurt's fault at all, when the voice climbs out of kavinsky's throat cracking like puberty.] That's the stupidest fucking bullshit I've ever heard. Whatever I decide? Whatever I fucking decide? [the traffic doesn't slow as it zooms by. panultima likely sees more than its fair share of divorce, too. he pushes kurt's hand away, his tattooed hands-- almost shaking, for some reason. some stupid reason.] You gonna fucking stand there and gloat about being my best fucking, saving my life, if I kill somebody with a Goddamn tire iron?

Put somebody's puppy in an oven. Waterboard Ronan Lynch's baby fucking brother because it's fun. [he sneers, a little belatedly. it wobbles on his face, then holds, if only barely. he aims a shove at kurt's chest. his strength is— frightening.] Be a candyass or a chump. Not both, mutant bitch.

IT'S OKAY he is a big boy that can take it craughs

[shadowblends]

[wow, that's ... ample information he hadn't been anticipating. never once has the little blue demon thought murder would be something that'd come up in this discussion.] More than likely, I'm going to ask why you're putting puppies in ovens, beating people with tire irons and waterboarding others, but. [he hesitates briefly, features twisted by a grimace. the strength of kavinsky's push is what initially recaptures his attention; it's enough to make the air whoosh from his lungs, cause him stumble back, eyes wide as he raises both hands and clasps the other boy's shoulders.

nightcrawler knows he should disengage-- just let go and step back, except that's not what he does, oh no. his fingers become more firm and before he can stop himself:] I haven't the slightest clue what 'candyass' means, [he starts, the slow withdrawal of his hands tentative.] I know a chump when I see one, though. [the 'foolish' meaning, in this case. fatigue settles over him like heavy clouds. there's very little left for him to say and still, he heaves a breath, somewhat defeated, but not down for the count quite yet.] I'd hope you would have decent composure and— oh, I don't know, common sense enough to know that doing those sorts of things is wrong?

But I guess we all make mistakes. [hell, saying it burns his tongue in more than one way. kurt isn't free of blameworthy events (such as killing beings during wartime or letting things get out of hand at the gala), so his mind's not clear whatsoever. no regret admitting what was said-- he only wishes things could have been worded better.

doing this during a mission also makes it less convenient, which feels more deplorable than he'd like, but can't go back now.

after abruptly turning on his heel, he says over his shoulder,] You'll need to ask yourself: will you continue through life as that person? [because honestly, does kavinsky disclose such things for shock value?] Go out on a limb and stop being afraid. [he's got a feeling. that, and slaying cute, innocent things can be explored another time.] I've never imagined bragging about my ability to help someone, regardless of their past transgressions, but thank you for preening permissions. [sarcasm. sounds defensive and is, for all intents and purposes.

everything feels wrong, even taking another step forward on the sidewalk seems unsuitable. walking away from kavinsky hurts and though he hates admitting it, for both their sakes, this reaction might have been the best decision.] Take what you will from this, I suppose. [a beat.] Should you decide it's worth your time, our daemons never have trouble finding one another. [then, against every impulse he has, kurt strides on alongside the congested road, hoping he has enough self-control to keep from looking back.]

[pillz]

[what's the worst thing about kavinsky? there are so many terrible things to choose from.

he is vulgar and terrified, a coward incapable of admitting how he is. he not only hurts people who have never wounded him, but he hurts people he cares about because he cares about them. he looks for mistakes to punish, with such a voracious and ugly appetite that inevitably he makes mistakes of his own, salivating with bile. it's the problem with craving love as if it were merely another material prize to steal. you can't steal love and enjoy it. you have to believe you actually deserve it.

and in all his theft and violence, kavinsky undoes the very thing that he wants.

he watches kurt walk away. it feels inevitable. it feels horrible. stupid spiteful smug satisfaction swells up like an acid bubble in his stomach— i knew it, i knew this would happen. it always does, you know. and at the same time, of course, he hates it. the flick of kurt's blue tail as he walks away; the way the mutant's words echo in his head without inherent meaning. he makes up five different stories about why this is happening. kurt is too weak to handle him and his bullshit. kurt is too naive to understand him. kurt is too good to deserve any of this. kurt only wanted a waystation, anyway, on his journey to real love and mutant heroics— slumming it on the way to his fairy palace.

kurt, kurt. kurt. kurt.

kurt.

kurt.

for once, kavinsky keeps his mouth shut. silent, as he watches kurt shrink into the distance, the bend of the street and the glittering lights of the alien city.]