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

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.]