EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: Concordia - VEN DIAGRAMS HQ + BOUT IT OUT PARLOR + BEARINGS APARTMENT BLOCK
WHEN: Late Day :022 + Early Day :023
SUMMARY: The results of all your hard work - for better or worse. One win, one draw, one loss. Anakin Skywalker bites the big one.
WARNINGS: Violence, non-graphic character death.

IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY. Unfortunately, that’s not about to change any time soon. In the late hours of the evening, two things are happening: the final round of the Bout It Out expose between Kun-Kun and The Darkling is spooling up; meanwhile, the infiltration team at Ven Diagrams is working to retrieve information on H+H1 from the company’s security drive. Unfortunately, neither is going to reach the natural conclusion.

At the REGAL STREET GAMING PARLOR, emotions are running high. After a long day of simulation violence and the reveal of Kun-Kun’s new automaton fighting avatar, the crowd has been stoked to a few pitch. The music’s loud but the crowd is louder: cheering and booing, shouting for every landed or evaded strike. There’s an electric pulse of excitement in the air-- and then there’s a very literal one as an electromagnetic pulse rocks the Regal Street Parlor. The Bout It Out ring shorts and the entire parlor is pitched into total, window-less darkness. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for the crowd’s excitement to melt into panic. Pushing, shoving, shouting - a piercing shriek as one of Kun-Kun’s representatives is stabbed. The nearby hosts (Lexa, Sam Alexander, and anyone in their faux attachment) should be able to help Kun-Kun and his reps to safety, but the crush of the crowd tangles up everyone else. When a rudimentary bomb goes off in the center of the parlor, it catches plenty of people in the crossfire.

There’s a white hot flash. A pulse of heat. A sizzle of agony. It’s a pain that guts, that persists long after the flash of the bomb and extends all the way to the infiltration team at Ven Diagrams. It’s like a limb badly severed. Anakin Skywalker is killed by the blast and every host knows it before they’re aware of anything else.

Unluckily for the infiltration team, they won’t have much time to recover. News of the bombing hits Extraspace in a matter of seconds, which triggers Ven Diagrams - paranoid from the recent attack on their own properties - to lock down their headquarters. All systems are tightened and security clamps down before the infiltration team can access the private servers. If you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be, now’s the time to get the hell out of dodge.

Retreat, regroup. Upon returning to the Bearings apartment block, the hosts will find that two of their previously comatose friends have woken up: Hux and Aoba Seragaki will probably need to be briefed on the current situation.

     I. THE ROOM WHERE IT HAPPENS
In the Regal Street Gaming Parlor, a pulse flashes. Electronics sizzle. A fight reaching rhythm is shattered and darkness consumes the parlor in its entirety. There’s something like a collective inhale - and then the panic sets in. Screaming. Pushing. Elbows in the dark and a wave of bodies forcing their way toward wherever they think the exit is. Parlors like this one are supposed to be shielded from this kind of problem, but today that doesn’t matter. In just a few short moments of panic, a bomb - basic compared to the one that blew out the Ven Diagram warehouse only days ago - goes off.

There’s a buzz. An electrical hiss. In the wake of the explosion - in the wake of the agony of Anakin’s death -, the parlor’s fire systems go off flooding the upper and lower levels, the spectator balconies with flame retardant powder and coolant. The emergency lighting kicks on, throwing the carnage into stark fluorescent light. The probable intended victim has escaped, along with his entourage, but there are plenty of wounded - groans and weeping permeate the chemical stale air. In addition to Anakin, three people have been killed and two androids have been rendered into scrap by the explosion. Countless others could use help; maybe even a few other hosts have been wounded by the blast.

     II. MEANWHILE...
If you’re part of the infiltration team, you’ve officially overstayed your welcome. Security tightens to a chokehold; if you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be, it’s time to leave. An alarm blares through the development laboratories. The building is evacuated and then sealed throughout. The powerlifts cease operation. All networked systems go offline.

     III. FROM THE JAWS OF DEFEAT
Back at the parlor, the evacuation continues. The parlor is half-collapsed, there are injured to tend to and local authorities to deal with. In a matter of minutes, the the parlor is swarmed by public security and medical personnel. If you’re able bodied, you’re welcome to assist with rescue efforts - or try to find a lead on who could’ve been responsible for this. Some evidence, some sign - anything to make this worth it. During this time those with Kun Adetokunbo will have the chance to make their case.

It’s a long, protracted clean up and triage; it’s absolutely possible that some of the infiltration team members might make it to the site of the explosion to assist or care for their friends. 

     IV. WE TEND OUR WOUNDED, WE COUNT OUR DEAD
In the early hours of the morning on Day 023, the hosts limp back to Bearings. Maybe it should be achingly quiet, but it’s not - there’s a murmur of activity in the mental air as Hux and Aoba muddle out of their way from out of their comas. From here, it’s up to to the hosts to recover, to discuss how they want to proceed, and come up with a way to recover from this setback - and from Anakin’s death.

---

((OOC NOTES: Here it is, your wrapup log for the event! You may have noticed that the Hosts didn’t succeed at the Ven Diagrams infiltration. We thought this was a better way than asking everyone to handwave a huge amount of plot or simply having the NPCs get the evidence. Don’t worry though - there will be other mysteries to unravel soon. Very soon, in fact.

There will be an NPC top-level for the escape with Kun-Kun, but otherwise you’re free to make your own top levels! If you have any questions please feel free to ask them in the event OOC post.

Thanks everyone!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

iv. b

[cognitived]

[ The death cuts through him; sharp, shearing, the paring away of flesh from bone. You didn't see that coming?, he thinks, dazedly. Blood upon his tongue, cold cold cold. The lose of another life before him -- not unusual, not a first, but this...

Even now, hours later, it clings to him. The phantom klaxon of the alarm sunders through him, paired with with the phantom spray of Pietro's blood, the sickening sight of Rhodes falling. It's been a long while since he's been cut down like this, even though the relative safety of Bearings is a surprising balm.

It could have been worse. It doesn't help.

Eventually, he descends from his perch, stalking through the halls on quiet feet. The nest pulls, but that's not what draws him forth. No -- Clint's long since vowed to never let something tug at his mind, use him. Instead, it's the growl of his stomach, the hollow growl of too much energy expended on an empty stomach. By the time Clint reaches the kitchen, he's not exactly open to companionship, but he doesn't turn away the gleaming press of familiar mind skimming by. ]

You want some?

[ He calls out without looking away. ]

[deployed]

[ Anakin's death has stirred up memories for so many of them. Clint's are faint flickers, things that catch the corners of Bellamy's awareness and vanish before he can pay direct attention to them. What lingers is the sense of hunger, which is at direct odds with Bellamy's nausea. He's not intending to stop in the kitchen and tempt fate, but he heeds the invitation.

Clint is a mystery. He's closed off in a way that Bellamy envies but can't quite manage to replicate. Bellamy drops heavily into the nearest seat, elbows braced on the table while he rides out the initial, queasy reaction to the smell of food. ]

I better not.

[ He's sick of vomiting. He's also sure everyone who happens to brush against his mind is also sick of it. ]

It's still not a good idea.

[cognitived]

[ It's not really hard to be a mystery when you spend most of your time hiding from the hive's press of minds. Not that Clint would say he's hiding, persay -- but what else would you call it? Generally speaking, he's only here to train, to snag something to eat, and to sleep in shifts. Its uncomfortable still. But the control, it comes from practice, from having himself unmade, unmasked, rewritten at another's behest.

Clint wouldn't wish it upon Bellamy. He wouldn't wish it on anybody.

He can't keep away forever, though, and this mission has dragged him close. The aftermath lingers, blood beneath fingernails, chest caving in on itself. The hunger draws him forth, keeps him close. Still, Bellamy's not wrong either. Clint's stomach twists, nausea briefly fighting the hollow ache for control. It's familiar somehow. A slip of a thought escapes before he can stop it; tears and red cheeks, tiny hands and a soft humming; soothing, healing, an ache that catches beneath his ribcage like hooks. ]

Mmhm. [ A placeholder of a sound, as Clint purposefully moves about the kitchen. Bread? -- Yes, into the toaster, even as he turns off the stove and plates up some of his own food. Grabs a glass and fills it with water. Quick, efficient movements, trying not to dwell. Would Laura be--no. The ding of the toaster draws him back, and Clint slides the toast onto a waiting plate. Turns and puts plate and glass before Bellamy before returning for his own. ]

Don't have to eat it all, but a little bit'll help.

[deployed]

[ The snippet of memory is oddly devastating. Bellamy's thoughts swing immediately Octavia, remembering being young and terrified and holding her in his arms. He recognizes the ache, feels the echo of it like a pressure over his heart. He'd always been some strange mix of parent and brother for Octavia. Clint had someone he cared for like that, and presumably missed. It cuts Bellamy at the knees, feeling that bounce back through the link even for a split second. He all but crumples into the nearest seat, elbows on the table, eyes intent on Clint's back. ]

It'll be a waste if I throw it up again.

[ There's something telling in the way Bellamy's overly sensitive about food, focused on how much, who needs to eat what. Lifelong rationing left it's mark. ]

But thanks. For this.

[ It was a gesture of care, punctuated by a memory he hadn't been meant to see. Gratitude felt like the least Bellamy could offer in return. ]

[cognitived]

[ For a second, for a moment, they echo. A twisting, looping, push-pull of agony. Clint's back tenses, stilling, even as Bellamy falls into his chair like a puppet with its strings cut. Silence reigns, as Clint unwinds, busy, busy. The tension still gilds his spine, settles in his shoulders, but he breathes through it. Settles down in his own chair and tries not to think about it.

Still -- he picks up on the hesitance in Bellamy's words. A familiarity with hunger, rationing, that throws Clint back to his early years. He doesn't let anything spill, guarded, guarding. ]

Maybe, but it can't hurt to try. [ A little nod, acknowledging. With one hand, he spins his fork, a vague pasta substitute awaiting him. He won't necessarily push, but he'll nudge. ] We've more than enough for everyone here anyway.

[deployed]

[ None of that was meant to be seen. Bellamy understands that without Clint having to say it. He walls himself off and in the aftermath and Bellamy doesn't try to bypass those mental blocks. Octavia's no secret, but Bellamy realizes that Clint's holding back his own...children, Bellamy assumes, because he isn't about to ask. He leans on his elbows, head ducked as he sweeps curiosity and the urge to commiserate aside. Both feel unwelcome. ]

I know, [ Bellamy admits, though knowing hasn't circumvented years of learned instinct. ] I've never seen this much food.

[ And he hasn't seen some of the food at all, but finding it unrecognizable hasn't put him off eating it. ]

Sorry for...this.

[ For leaking nausea all over the brood. ]

[cognitived]

[ Don't feel bad about it, Bellamy, Clint spent his entire marriage protecting his family by keeping them secret. Maybe not the best choice, but a paranoid and highly trained spysassin only has so many options. He misses them, though, just as Bellamy must miss Octavia.

Clint nods in understanding, no trace of pity in his gaze, his mind. He gets it, enough to...]

Took me years to get used to.

[ Is that really Clint Barton opening up to somebody?. Shock, awe, he passes it off like it's no big deal. But of course, it isn't. Back home, his backstory hadn't exactly been unknown. So here, now, he shrugs a shoulder, nonchalant, even as he takes a bite of his food. There's still faint, lingering nausea, but he pushes it aside. Not the first time, and this time he's well aware that its just his head messing with him. ]

Don't have to apologize. Isn't the first time I've been hit hard after a mission.

[ Not unkindly, though. Something about Bellamy reminds him painfully of Cooper. ]

[deployed]

[ Bellamy's head lifts, catching Clint's gaze. Like before, he senses a similarity there. There's shared experience, albeit one separated by a fair amount of factors. ]

Feels like I never will.

[ And if he does, then he'd be betraying something in the process. He will never go home, but every thing he does to acclimate feels like putting more distance between himself and his home. ]

This isn't like most missions. I assume.

[ This is Bellamy's brain bleeding nausea all over everyone. It feels different. It feels like something he's directly responsible for. ]

[cognitived]

[ Bellamy looks at him, and it's so painfully easy to relax, let him see the similarity between them, provide some stability to lean against. Clint's good at that; pep talks, quiet comments, silent support. Not what Fury had probably expected out of an angry ex-carnie kid, but it's who Clint's become. He doesn't mind being that person here and now, especially not when they're all tied together. ]

I keep stockpiles. [ Quietly, not necessarily a secret, but. ] Small stuff, non-perishables, y'know. Sometimes habit can be hard to kick [ a little laugh, wry. ] and sometimes they're still useful.

[ Laura had tried to help, but reassurances weren't much good when you'd spent the better part of two decades not knowing when or where your next meal was gonna be. Being a soldier, an assassin, it hadn't helped much either. Maybe more to the point, Clint had always viewed it as useful having stashes, because he never knew.

Bellamy's statement pushes aside the thoughtfulness, and Clint's mouth curls with a smile, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes. ]

Eh. [ It isn't, not really. Clint's never had someone else's mind mess with him like this. Except for Loki, but that's not one can of worms he's ever planning on opening. But: ] One time I fractured my skull, broke two ribs, and had to find my own way out of Slovakia. Let me tell ya, little bit of nausea? Ain't bad.

[deployed]

[ Bellamy's eyebrows raise. He doesn't pull back from the sense of connection, for once. Like with the Darkling, the sense of common ground going beyond the presence of symbiotes is easier to accept. The pieces don't align exactly, but just enough that the emotions and memories reverberate. ]

I know it's not necessary, [ Bellamy admits, rueful. ] Just in case, right?

[ Initially, Bellamy had thought only Lexa would understand some aspects of his life. She had come from his world, but even so, there were things that would escape the scope of her experience. Clint's admission puts Bellamy at ease, though there's a lingering wash of apology in spite of Clint measuring the nausea against a whole other class of pain. ]

What happened? [ He asks. ] How did you get so hurt?

[cognitived]

[ If Clint didn't pay too close attention to the weld of their minds, it could be any other connection. Just a couple of guys swapping stories over a pint -- or, well, over not-pasta and toast. Nevermind the fact that these are a bit heavier than any other story anyway.

Whatever, he doesn't think about it. Simply nods, mouth curved with equally rueful smile. The apology is set aside, heard but unneeded, the bewilderment easier to stomach. And yeah, ok, maybe it's a bit over the top comparison -- but Bellamy's not dwelling on the whole mind-nausea thing now is he? ]

Really bad luck. [ Clint huffed, amused despite the whole past grievous injury thing. ] I was undercover, and somehow my mark figured out who I was. A guard got a couple good hits in, and when I jumped out the window my landing was off -- hit too hard and nearly punctured a lung.

[ A shrug, some faint snippet of an angry redhead leaking through. Nat had been pissed he'd nearly gotten himself killed without her there. ] Didn't get a bullet that time though, so, could have been worse.

[deployed]

You made it out.

[ It's a simple thing to point out, but it highlights Bellamy's focus in a very simple way. For all the injury, all the pain, Clint had survived. It's a good distraction, though Bellamy still hasn't started in on the toast. His thoughts catch on the woman, the red spill of her hair and terrified fury on her face, but he doesn't ask. Yet. ]

Was that the worst of it?

[ Injuries? Life? Bellamy doesn't specify. He's wary of pushing too hard for any kind of information with Clint. Clint's private. Respecting that is important. Bellamy trusts the slivers of knowledge he has coupled with the brief impressions of emotion that had leaked through. It's enough. Bellamy's intuition is so rarely right these days, but his gut feeling about Clint seems unlikely to backfire on him. ]

[cognitived]

I did. [ Simple enough to reiterate, but worth it. Clint can near feel the way Bellamy focuses, but he invited this in. It's nothing so much as breadcrumbs, offered in the cup of his palm. The fork twirls between his fingers, and Clint props his chin in his other hand. ]

Mm, depends. [ You have heart, comes a whisper, caught behind the calcite of his teeth. Too much, too blue, he holds it back. Not purely for himself, though it mostly is, but nobody needs to know how it feels to be unmade, unmoored. Instead Clint clears his throat, moves on. ]

I've more than a few bad encounters, but it came with the job. [ A pause. ] Both of them, I guess.

[deployed]

[ Depends.

Bellamy holds Clint's gaze for a long moment. The wash of blue, coupled with the admiring croon, it freezes his blood. It drags up a memory unexpectedly, just a flicker of fluorescent lights and the weight of chains and a collar, a woman's voice like a steel trap saying harvest. It isn't the same. But Mount Weather had made a good run at trying to grind Bellamy under it's heel.

Sometimes he's certain he lost something important there, but he isn't totally sure he had it to begin with. ]

Both?

[ He'd gotten the impression it was a singular job, one very far removed from Bellamy's world. But the implication of more is interesting. Bellamy wants to separate them out, figure out which one came with all the broken bones and if the other was dangerous as well. ]

[cognitived]

[ for a second, a brief little blip, they loop. The weight of a collar at his throat sits heavily, a more physical cage than the Tesseract's insidious hold ever was. The pieces of Loki that never quite left want to rush screaming and clawing to the forefront of his mind. It's been years, but the pull of power in his veins is still so damn enthralling.

He can't look away, caught in the hollows behind Bellamy's gaze. It's funny, he spent so long trying to keep them at arms length, wanting to keep his privacy, wanting to keep the age old fear of more fingers in his brain from taking over. But the second he gives in, the second he reached out -- well, it's probably fitting that the broodmate he talked to was so similar.

Still -- there's a pause, and he frowns, trying to push the threads of Loki away. Far far down, compartimentalizing as he knew best. ]

Yeaaaah....[ Well, he's clearly not going to eat much right now. Clint scrubs at the nape of his neck, sighing. ] Back home, I worked for SHIELD...as an assassin. But after, well, a few years ago I joined another group too. Helped save people, I guess you'd call us superheroes.

[deployed]

[ Bellamy flinches, inhaling sharply at the grasping clutch of power. It's like secondhand smoke; it sinks and inhabits, inescapable. He doesn't break eye contact, just rides out the rush while he struggles to suppress the flashback to the wire cage and the shock of the electric baton against his ribs. Clint's not the only one compartmentalizing. ]

Like Nova? [ This is the only frame of reference Bellamy has. ] The little Sam.

[ He doesn't actually know what superheroing entails. He knows it seemed confusing and a bit pointless, and that Nova had talked to Lexa about it, but other than that, it's all a blank. Bellamy has a hard time reconciling Clint with his vision of Sam, but apparently he'll have to make it work. ]

[cognitived]

[ Damn, Clint spots that flinch, the sharp inhale. He hadn't meant to spill over like that, not with this. He pulls back, not quite disengaging, but stubbornly forcing his thoughts away from the blue, from Loki. Focus on the here, Barton, focus on the now. Bellamy's question allows him that, the weight of thought shifting to something new. ]

Technically, I think? [ He hasn't really talked to Nova, though Sam has -- his Sam. Clint's unsure, but curious. He'll have to see. ] Wasn't like the comics always made it seem.

[ Confusing and a bit pointless is pretty much exactly what superheroing entails though. Add in a couple blown up cities, a roughshod team, and apparently oceantanamo, and you've got #herolyfe. ]