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Forced Confessions
Characters: Ensemble cast, any/all characters of Xistentia!
Summary: At the end of a spring-time mingle party, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. unleashes a psychic weapon that forces characters to confess their secrets to one another. Check out the mod announcement for more information.
Date(s): First 2 weeks of April 2018
Warnings/Notes: Psychic influence/coercion, potential trauma, etc. in confessions. Please use subject header warnings appropriately!
It begins with a party, out in the woods of Xistentia, with drinks, food, and fairy lights. The glade is illuminated in a brilliant palette of jewel tones, the most intense where the dancefloor stretches out between glow-in-the-dark marked trees, punctuated by F.A.T.E.S.' ever jarring, mismatched combination of musical tunes. Not far from that, you have enclosures of soft bedding set aside in mood-lit shadows, and veiled by mosquito net, for those of us who prefer more privacy.
The deeper nightclub colors fade to a warm, lustrous gold where there are spaces to sit, socialize, and eat.
Other liquid refreshments include a blood bar, courtesy of Rafaello d'Este's local business.
But on the fifth evening, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. strikes. There's a warning— only 10 minutes in advance-- over the network, even while the vast majority of revelers are a little too busy to pay any attention to their daemons.
A black ball of some writhing, metallic substance abruptly comes tearing through the atmosphere, the size of your average adult human curled into fetal position. As it breaks through layers of gas, it adopts an orange glow for a brief instant. It's easily lost in the canopy, even for the most agile and practiced of Xistentia residents. It's impossible to tell what it is. A faint whine fills the air, and a moment later, the projectile detonates. The scent of tar fills the forest along with shouts of dismay. And too little too late, F.A.T.E.S. warning system begins to blare that a contaminant has entered the atmosphere.
However, apart from a few bruises, panic and partial deafness, nobody seems harmed at all. That is, until the compulsion sets in.
Your secrets, both large and small, suddenly become wrenching fodder for impulsive speech... or signing, texting, any multitude of communication methods wind up hijacked. The worst of it comes when you face someone you know and love. Sheer willpower might stave off the urge long enough for your character to get out of range for conversation, and it might be a good time to avoid company for awhile. It will come randomly, in spikes, for 2 weeks to follow.
Feel free to use the confessions thread here to start some textspam trouble!
A week later, F.A.T.E.S. and both magic and science-minded researchers have analyzed the goop. The worst of the epidemic is localized around the party, though psychic ripples continue to be felt across Xistentia for a few days.
And now we need cleanup.
It's a motley group of unlikely volunteers. Some people are just lucky— they have no secrets they fear to share, or perhaps just no shame. Others are just good samaritans, willing to risk a terrifying level of honesty in the interest of preventing further damage to the relationships that make Xistentia run.
In any case, the group finds themselves armed with gloves, rubber suits, and floating glass containment orbs, manipulable with gestures, that can absorb the black ichor off the trees, earth, and furniture. This will be stored at the temple. And what we'll do with it—
Who knows. Or perhaps you and your compatriots have an idea for the substance permanent disposal to share.
Summary: At the end of a spring-time mingle party, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. unleashes a psychic weapon that forces characters to confess their secrets to one another. Check out the mod announcement for more information.
Date(s): First 2 weeks of April 2018
Warnings/Notes: Psychic influence/coercion, potential trauma, etc. in confessions. Please use subject header warnings appropriately!
Forced Confessions Event
I admit I'm on the rebound And I don't care
Five-Day Party
It begins with a party, out in the woods of Xistentia, with drinks, food, and fairy lights. The glade is illuminated in a brilliant palette of jewel tones, the most intense where the dancefloor stretches out between glow-in-the-dark marked trees, punctuated by F.A.T.E.S.' ever jarring, mismatched combination of musical tunes. Not far from that, you have enclosures of soft bedding set aside in mood-lit shadows, and veiled by mosquito net, for those of us who prefer more privacy.
The deeper nightclub colors fade to a warm, lustrous gold where there are spaces to sit, socialize, and eat.
Other liquid refreshments include a blood bar, courtesy of Rafaello d'Este's local business.
Psychic Bomb: The Confessions (April 5-14)
But on the fifth evening, D.E.S.T.I.N.Y. strikes. There's a warning— only 10 minutes in advance-- over the network, even while the vast majority of revelers are a little too busy to pay any attention to their daemons.
A black ball of some writhing, metallic substance abruptly comes tearing through the atmosphere, the size of your average adult human curled into fetal position. As it breaks through layers of gas, it adopts an orange glow for a brief instant. It's easily lost in the canopy, even for the most agile and practiced of Xistentia residents. It's impossible to tell what it is. A faint whine fills the air, and a moment later, the projectile detonates. The scent of tar fills the forest along with shouts of dismay. And too little too late, F.A.T.E.S. warning system begins to blare that a contaminant has entered the atmosphere.
However, apart from a few bruises, panic and partial deafness, nobody seems harmed at all. That is, until the compulsion sets in.
Your secrets, both large and small, suddenly become wrenching fodder for impulsive speech... or signing, texting, any multitude of communication methods wind up hijacked. The worst of it comes when you face someone you know and love. Sheer willpower might stave off the urge long enough for your character to get out of range for conversation, and it might be a good time to avoid company for awhile. It will come randomly, in spikes, for 2 weeks to follow.
Feel free to use the confessions thread here to start some textspam trouble!
Bomb Resolution (April 12+)
A week later, F.A.T.E.S. and both magic and science-minded researchers have analyzed the goop. The worst of the epidemic is localized around the party, though psychic ripples continue to be felt across Xistentia for a few days.
And now we need cleanup.
It's a motley group of unlikely volunteers. Some people are just lucky— they have no secrets they fear to share, or perhaps just no shame. Others are just good samaritans, willing to risk a terrifying level of honesty in the interest of preventing further damage to the relationships that make Xistentia run.
In any case, the group finds themselves armed with gloves, rubber suits, and floating glass containment orbs, manipulable with gestures, that can absorb the black ichor off the trees, earth, and furniture. This will be stored at the temple. And what we'll do with it—
Who knows. Or perhaps you and your compatriots have an idea for the substance permanent disposal to share.
1!
More than widdle.]
On your feet, [he says. He's still half-deaf and stumbling, but he grasps Loki's shoulders and hoists him nearly right up onto his feet. A helper. The lights are out where they are or maybe he'd notice then, but he's looking away, unobservant as a bag o' bricks.]
no subject
What's your ploy, Stark?
no subject
[But before he can finish that thought
there are more words pouring out of him, abruptly. Different to being drunk. Arguably worse. It just happens, despite the din of panicky people and disorientation from the explosion.] I know you like fronting up like you are what you are without remorse, but the fact is, you could front up with remorse too. You don't have to cry. I didn't cry, okay? When they come after me, all self-righteous, just like you tried-- throwing dead Middle Eastern babies and eighteen-year-old USAA soldiers in my face, I don't cry.
I just tell them I'm doing different. There's no cross to bear. I'm nobody's symbol or anybody's whipping boy. I still have my pride. Probably more than your average person.
[And then he snaps his teeth shut, a look of confusion on his face.]
no subject
Why bother? Everyone I cared for — they're dead. I keep dying and I keep coming back like a scab no one knows how to pry loose. Remorse? I'm a monster. Monsters should just die and be done with it. I don't want your pathetic narrative of goodness, I don't want it. Because it'll never fix me. It'll never make me wanted, it'll never make me worthy.
[ His smile is bloody-red. He's bitten his own tongue. ]
I have nothing to cry for.
no subject
It's so much bigger than that now. Unimaginably big.] Whether you want it or not. Whether you choose it, or not. [There's a jolt of a hand against Loki's arm, but Tony doesn't, in fact, shove him into the mud or anything.] Self-ignorance serves the narcissist well, but you're not stupid enough to believe anything else. You wait for the narrative to choose you, and being out-of-control, 'pathetic,' 'never worthy'-- that becomes part the narrative.
[He tosses his hand at Loki's. Loki-ness. Lanky height and all.] How's it better story, to believe you don't have a choice? Who's it better for?
no subject
It is the story most told, who hedged me in.
But I am free.
no subject
[Tony smiles tightly. He brushes dust off his sleeve, and turns his head to look for the people he loves amid the wreckage.]
Your choice is what or who you belong to. Bertolt Brecht wrote about it, some point. Maybe I'll show you, if we make it out of here alive.
no subject
It does not seem to be a typical detonation.
no subject
It wasn't, [he agrees, after a moment.] Probably some psychic shit. [It felt more like Wanda in his head than ordinary bombs rocking through his bones, against his skin. He wipes his nose on his arm unthinkingly, not even a little bit concerned about appearances his once.]
I'm going to check it out. Guess you'll do you.
no subject
Don't act like you know me.
no subject
[A backward glance, just brief.]
Close enough. A reporter who went to Brown taught me that.
no subject
At least I'm capable of something.